The Murder in the Marriage
by bloodwrites
Summary: When KitC's TJ Wright begins having questions about his father's murder, he comes to DC to ask for Brennan's help. Meanwhile, a series of children's abduction/murders pushes Booth's career - and B/B's relationship - in an unexpected direction.
1. Prologue

_Okay, so... I believe I promised a new story beginning August 1. So - the good news is that this is the beginning. The bad news? I can't actually update again until September 1st, at which point I'll go back to doing weekly updates right on through to the bitter end. 'Til then, though, I've got a deadline for a real live original novel, and that's gotta get done first. Just wanted you guys to know I hadn't forgotten about you! :) _

* * *

Thomas Jefferson sits in front of the TV in his Spiderman pajamas, a can of Coke in one hand and a model pirate's ship in the other. It's nine-thirty on a school night, but - at eight years, six months, and seven days old - Tom likes to believe he's master of his own destiny: he chooses his own bedtime. At least, he does on nights when his mom works late.

The lights are off and the sound is on low, so his father doesn't figure out he's still up. Not that he'd probably say anything if he knew, but Tom doesn't want to take any chances. It's a Thursday night, and his favorite show is on: Simon & Simon. It's a repeat, one he's seen a couple of times, but it's a good one - the one where Rick's old girlfriend's husband gets killed. He watches the brothers chase a bad guy down an alley, past a house... Rick stops and lights a cigarette while AJ keeps right on going. Tom smiles a little; he likes Rick best. Whenever he and his best friend Doug play this, Doug always wants to be AJ. Tom couldn't care less - even though he's got the blonde hair and is a lot better looking than Doug, it's no contest. He can picture himself ten, twenty years from now, living in a houseboat docked in Doug's front yard. Drinking beer and eating stale pizza, no ties and no troubles. Yep, he'd rather be Rick any day of the week.

During the commercial, he creeps carefully up the long flight of stairs to the second floor, running his hand along the wooden banister the whole way. He pushes the door open a crack and peers into his father's office, just to check and make sure everything's okay. His father is sitting at his desk, and Tom can just make out the piece of blank paper in the typewriter in front of him. He's wearing his writing sweater - worn at the elbows, frayed at the collar. Mud green, a ratty old thing Tom's mother is always throwing out, only to have his father steal it back out of the trash and patiently wash it out in the bathtub. Whenever he does, it leaves a green ring around the edge of the tub, a puddle of olive-colored water at the drain. His mother gets down on her knees and scrubs, but that ring never quite goes away.

Instead of writing like he's supposed to be doing, his father is staring out the window. His desk is covered with books. His floor is covered with books. They're stacked on shelves, piled in corners, dog-eared in some places and highlighted in others. For his father, books are everything - he's told Tom as much. Tom doesn't care for them himself - all those words, all those worlds. All that time watching his father stare into space, never quite clear if he's coming back to earth this time around. If Tom was a superhero, he firmly believes that books would be his arch nemesis.

They're definitely kryptonite for his father.

On this night, his father has that hollow look that always makes Tom nervous. The times he's seen the look before, it's usually just before a trip to the emergency room, to be followed soon after by a visit with his father drooling black gunk from the corners of his mouth, or his wrists bandaged for weeks before the bandages come off and a fresh set of thin pink scars are revealed.

Yeah, he really hates that look.

He returns to his spot in front of the TV just as he hears a car pull into the drive. The action is amping up on the show - there's a shootout coming, and Tom remembers that AJ gets shot in the arm. It doesn't matter, though; the sound of the car door slamming makes him jump, and he knows he's gotta run. He goes to the window to make sure it's not a false alarm, and his heart sinks. Sure enough, it's his mother. And by the look of her, she's good and pissed. She wouldn't be home this early otherwise. Tom swallows back the knot in his stomach, grabs his Coke and his pirate ship, and hurries to bed before she realizes he's still up.

It's clear the second she slams through the front door that his mother has bigger fish to fry than Tom, though.

"Alan!" she shouts, not even bothering to keep her voice down.

Dr. Taylor - Doug's stepdad - says his mom is just passionate. He heard the old man talking to his wife about it one day.

"You say passionate, I say trashy," Mrs. Taylor said.

Tom likes Dr. Taylor - the man likes to take him places, talk about wild hunting expeditions he's been on and the people he's met along the way. He's not a huge fan of Mrs. Taylor, though.

"I'm working," Tom's father shouts back.

"You mind telling me why someone tried to repossess my car while I was in the middle of a shift tonight?" she yells. Tom can hear her coming up the stairs, her voice getting louder with every step.

He sits up in bed, trying to decide what to do. Sometimes, before they really get into it, Tom can do something to distract them - break a dish, spill something, whatever. Before long, their own argument is over and they're too busy yelling at him to care about whatever they were ready to rip each other's throats out over just two minutes before.

It doesn't sound like his mother would be so easy to distract tonight, though.

He lays back in his bed and stares at the ceiling. Listens to his breathing. They're still yelling, but he can't make out the words.

Outside, he can hear crickets and frogs in the cool Oregon night.

He hears the sound of another car door slamming, somewhere close by. Their home is far out, not close enough to any other houses to hear a car door unless it's someone coming here.

He sits up again, glancing at his Transformers alarm clock. The shootout on TV would be over by now, and they'd be tying up all the loose ends - it's almost ten o'clock. Tom gets out of bed and roughs up his hair so it will look like he's been sleeping, in case anybody catches him. He creeps into the hallway.

When he hears the first gunshot, he doesn't know immediately that that's what it is. Tom's known for having an overactive imagination, and so over the past couple of years he's thought that everything from a car backfiring to a lightning strike and everything in between, are gunshots. It's funny that when he finally hears one live, he's almost positive that he has it wrong. Who would be shooting in his house, late on a Thursday night in one of the most boring neighborhoods on the planet?

* * *

Thinking back on that night now, almost twenty-five years later, this is the point when Tom's memory fails him.

What he can't remember, more than two decades after the fact, is exactly when that first shot came. He remembers hearing the car door slam, but did the gunshot come before or after the front door opened? Was his mother still yelling at his father when the gun went off, or had she left the study? He's relived the moment so many times that he actually thought at one point that he'd seen the whole thing - that he'd been in the study when his mother pulled the trigger. That he'd watched his father slump to his desk, a neat dark hole in his forehead.

But, according to reports he read years later, there was no neat, dark hole in his father's forehead - the shot was close-range from a large-caliber handgun, taking half the left side of his father's head with it.

What he does remember is his mother coming to him after that first shot. Was there a second? Sometimes he thinks there was, sometimes that's just his imagination talking. But then his mother was standing in the doorway to his room with his jacket and a suitcase in her hands. She was shaking - he definitely remembers that part.

"We have to go, TJ. Now - we're going on a trip."

He stared at her. "I can't go anywhere. I have a test tomorrow - and I'm supposed to go fishing with Doug and Caleb this weekend."

She didn't cry - at least, he doesn't remember her crying. She just stood there shaking, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. Her voice was hushed.

"Now - I'm not kidding. We have to go. Come on, baby – everything's gonna be all right."

He remembers that they went out the back way. That they didn't take either of his parents' cars, but walked a long way before there was a car waiting on the side of the road. They didn't turn on any lights when they left – they spoke in whispers, sticking close to the edge of the trees. TJ was still in his pajamas, his heart pounding and his mouth dry.

He remembers all of those details: what the cool night air felt like on his bare arms, the way his mother's burgundy sweater looked against her pale skin, how everything smelled and tasted and sounded and felt. But no matter how many times he's gone over it in the past twenty-four years, TJ still can't remember when that first shot came.

In his apartment, he stares out the window. His laptop has gone from blank page to screensaver long ago. It's raining outside. Addie is asleep in the next room, in the new bed he bought with the money from his first-ever book sale. Two days ago, she told him she loved him – and all he could do was stare at her dumbly.

"Thank you," he'd said. It was the best he could muster, in terms of an intelligent response.

So much for having a way with words.

He picks up his cell phone.

It's four a.m., which means it's seven on the east coast.

A phone number is written in red on a post-it on his desk, with just the letter T written beneath in TJ's nearly illegible handwriting. He tries to imagine what Temperance is doing right now. Getting ready for work? Writing? Analyzing bones? Making love to that God among men, Seeley Booth? At the thought, he groans. Rolls his eyes, before flipping his phone shut and turning off his computer.

He takes his coffee cup to the sink, rinses it out, and goes to bed.

He knows he won't sleep, though.

TBC

* * *

_A/N - I know, I know - Not even any B/B love to get you through the next month? I swear, the wait will be worth it... At least, I hope it will. I'll certainly do my best, anyway. :) And of course, if the novel gets done first, I'll strap myself to my office chair and get straight back to working on this!! I can't wait - I really miss you guys! _


	2. Chapter One

_So... I'll just warn folks here and now - if you haven't read Killer in the Classroom, there are lots of spoilers for it in here. LOTS. Sooo... You should definitely read that first. And then read this. You have been warned. Thanks to all who've left such lovely comments on the prologue - I'll be posting a chapter every Sunday from here on out, through to the bitter end. And away we go!_

* * *

Temperance Brennan was just finishing her shower, shampoo still in her hair and her mind occupied with a case, when she heard the front door to her apartment open.

"Bones!"

Booth. Clearly, since he was the only one who called her that, and the only one with keys to both the deadbolts he'd insisted be installed after a particularly harrowing case over the summer. He said her name as he was unlocking her door, announcing his presence the way he always did now – something she knew he did in order to keep from startling her. Just one more indicator of how things had changed since her abduction in Oregon four months earlier. How _she _had changed.

"In the shower," she shouted back, though she doubted he could hear her over the running water.

A moment later, Special Agent Seeley Booth opened the bathroom door with his shirt already off and his hands unfastening his belt – another excellent example of the drastic changes that had taken place of late. She peered at him from behind the shower curtain, silently reprimanding herself for the grin she couldn't seem to squelch and the fact that her body was already responding to his presence. Wet at the center and weak at the knees – that's what Angela called it. Before she began having sex with Booth, Brennan never really understood what that meant.

"You're early – I thought you weren't getting here until eleven. Where's Parker?"

"Jeez, Bones, nice to see you, too. We got back early – Parker's downstairs getting a tour with Manny."

She looked at him blankly, trying to place the name.

"Your security guy, Bones - the guy you pass every morning on your way to work? He's got a kid Parker's age, said he wouldn't mind showing him around a little. Which means we've got five minutes before I lose Father of the Year and become just another poor sap tryin' to get laid," he said, as he dropped his jeans and boxers to the bathroom floor.

He pulled the shower curtain back and drank her in, his eyes sparking on hers until she very nearly blushed. Not quite, but very nearly.

"Booth," she protested, as he pulled off his striped socks and practically tripped over himself in his frantic race to join her in the shower.

"Bo-ones," he mocked her, stealing her breath when she caught a glimpse of his firm abdominal muscles, his already impressive erection, his brown eyes steady on her own. He pushed her back against the wall of the shower, his mouth falling to her neck to drink the water beaded on her skin.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, his voice rough in her ear. She reached for him instinctually, moisture pooling at her center and an undeniable carnal need urging her closer.

"It's only been – " her breathing had quickened already, her hands moving over his body, her fingers wrapping around his shaft so that he caught his breath, almost hissed against her skin at the sensation.

"Ten days, Bones," he told her. He captured her hands, pinning them above her head as he continued ministering to her with his mouth. "Ten days without a syllable of squint speak, without fighting with you over who's gonna drive or whose turn it is to make the coffee." He paused, leaning in with a kiss that was at once passionate and still markedly tender – a balance her partner seemed to strike with ease. When they parted, he backed away just enough to look into her eyes, his body firm and wet and utterly maddening, against her own.

"Ten days without those blue eyes. Without these lips," he kissed her again, more deeply. "Without these," he bent and flicked a bead of moisture from her nipple with his tongue, taunting her by pressing himself more fully against her. She managed to get her hands free and pulled him up, their mouths crashing together this time, her hand at the nape of his neck to keep him close.

"We have five minutes," she gasped, feeling unmistakably desperate. "No more talking."

He nodded his agreement, then reached down and lifted her left leg, which she obligingly wrapped around his thigh. His fingers sought her and she moaned when he ran his thumb over the swollen bundle of nerves at her apex, before curling two fingers inside her.

"Booth," she whispered breathlessly, as he ran his mouth over her collarbone and sped the rhythm of his hand.

"Yeah, Bones," he whispered back, sounding more than slightly out of control himself.

"You," she gasped. "I want you inside me, not your hand. We have five minutes – now's not the time for foreplay."

He moaned against her neck, removing his hand after another few seconds. "God, I missed you," he said again.

He positioned himself at her entrance. Their eyes met, and for a moment he stopped – almost as though he had a question he wanted to ask. Or perhaps was waiting for something.

"I missed you, too," she finally admitted, smiling despite herself. Ten days gone, and it really did feel like much longer – she couldn't deny that.

He kissed her again, more gently this time, before the desperation returned and she was grinding against him. "Good," he whispered in her ear, just before he filled her. And all conversation ceased.

* * *

A scant ten minutes later, Brennan was on her way downstairs to the lobby with Booth. Showered and dressed, though far from sated. She wore jeans and a thick cable-knit sweater to protect herself from the chill of D.C. December, a wool cap drawn over her auburn hair and a large – and fairly heavy – box wrapped in green paper in her arms.

"Y'know, I can carry that for you, Bones," Booth said for at least the third time since they'd left her apartment. "What the hell's the point of dating a big, burly Fed if you won't let him carry your stuff for you?"

"I don't need you to carry my stuff for me – we're just going to the car."

She shifted the box in her arms, making an admirable attempt not to appear to struggle with its bulk. Booth rolled his eyes, but wisely made no move to take the package from her.

"What the hell'd you get her, Bones? Hodgins owns half the western hemisphere, it's not like they can't afford to outfit this kid themselves."

They were bound for a baby shower for Brennan's co-worker and best friend, Angela Montenegro, who – in typical Angela fashion – was thumbing her nose at tradition by throwing herself a baby shower in the middle of the second trimester of her very-unplanned pregnancy. Before Brennan could answer Booth's question, their conversation was interrupted when his son Parker spotted them coming out of the elevator.

"Bones!" the boy shouted, paying no heed whatsoever to the security guard who was watching the trio with a curiously amused expression on his face. Brennan had just enough time to hand Angela's gift to Booth before Parker launched himself at her and hugged her enthusiastically around the middle.

His apparent fondness for her was still somewhat disconcerting – unquestionably welcome, of course, but it still struck her as… odd, somehow, that this miniature Booth had attached himself so completely to her. She hugged him back, then surprised herself by ducking down to drop a kiss on his tousled blonde head.

"Hi, Parker. Did you have fun?"

Father and son had just returned from a three-day Boy Scout camping excursion, before which Booth had been leading a week-long field training for the FBI. While Parker looked flushed and invigorated from his adventure, she couldn't help but notice that Booth looked slightly less so.

The little boy nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, it was great. Dad and me won _everything._"

"I, Parker," Booth corrected him, standing back to watch the reunion. "Dad and I."

Parker rolled his eyes. "Dad and _I _won everything, Bones. There was a tracking contest and an archery contest and our team won in basketball, and First Aid, and – "

He laughed. "Okay, bub, I think Bones gets the picture. Now, what's say we hit the road - I'm starved." Before they could leave the building, however, Booth went over and said something Brennan couldn't hear to the security guard, who continued to look fairly amused. When he returned to her side, she eyed him suspiciously.

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothin', Bones," he said, though the grin on his face and the spark in his eye suggested otherwise. "Just that I wanted to surprise you, 'cause I'd been gone a while. Y'know... In the woods. With a bunch of guys. He was in the Corps, Bones. Believe me, he gets it."

Which, she supposed, should annoy her, but instead she found she was too happy to see both Booths to be terribly annoyed by the elder of the two. She frowned at him, but more out of obligation than anything else. "Anthropologically speaking, boasting about your se - "

Booth managed to hang onto the gift with one hand, and virtually drag her out of the lobby with the other, nodding significantly at Parker at the same time. "Bones! C'mon now, no anthropology speak in front of my kid, huh? All the anthropology speak gets left in the lab - it's Sunday. Now... Time to carb load for the big shindig at Hodgins' house. Right, Parks?"

Parker nodded eagerly, and the trio left the warmth of Brennan's building for the chill of December.

* * *

Once everyone was safely buckled into the car and they were on the highway, Booth turned to her.

"So, Bones, how was your week? Any interesting cases?" he kept his attention on the road, glancing at her briefly. He had one hand resting on her knee and a light in his eyes that Angela insisted only appeared when Brennan was near.

She hesitated. "Actually, yes," she said, her thoughts returning to the skeletal remains she'd been working to identify for the past several days. There were other things she should be telling him now – she knew that. But she still wasn't entirely certain how to begin that particular story, so she decided perhaps it could wait until after breakfast. Instead, she opted for a much safer topic: work.

"Human remains were found in the Bright Angel delta a week ago, and I believe they may belong to a native Puebloan who'd been living there with his tribe."

"Cool!" Parker said enthusiastically. Booth nodded, looking faintly amused at his son's reaction.

"Yeah, Bones. Cool," he said, his tone conveying quite clearly that he didn't think it was cool – or faintly interesting – in the least. "And did you play nice with Perotta while I was gone?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm glad you're back. Agent Perotta and I don't have the most complimentary working styles."

"You mean because she doesn't just go along with everything you say?"

"Booth, when have you ever just gone along with _anything _I say? Agent Perotta and I simply don't… gel. Our chemistry isn't conducive to a symbiotic working relationship."

He ran a fingertip along her knee, giving her a sideways glance and a slow, half-smile that made her feel as though her body temperature had risen at least ten degrees.

"Give her time, Bones. She just hasn't figured out how you work yet."

Brennan wasn't certain how to respond to this. Instead, she remained silent – focusing on the week she'd spent without Booth and the one to come, the story she wasn't telling… and, of course, on his fingertip moving lightly across her denim-clad leg.

"So," he said abruptly, clearly moving onto a new subject. "How long do we have to stay at this thing today, anyway? I don't even know why Parks and I have to go – isn't the baby shower supposed to be, you know, a girl thing? Can't Angela do _one _thing the way normal people do?"

"She believes the division between men and women during pregnancy is archaic and detrimental to the father's ability to bond with the child after birth," Brennan responded, to which Booth merely grunted. "It's not as though you'll be the only male there, anyway – Sweets will be there, and Jack."

He rolled his eyes. "Great."

"I believe Cam said Tripp was coming, as well."

At mention of the Outward Bound instructor Cam had been dating since the previous summer, Booth perked up immediately. The FBI agent had arranged to have Tripp assist him during the survival phase of the field training over the previous week; in addition, the two men frequently attended sporting events together and, it seemed to Brennan, spent at least some time each day on the telephone gossiping like old women. Despite this, the friendship that had developed between the two men was something that pleased Brennan a great deal. Though Booth was gregarious and infinitely likeable in social situations, he didn't actually make close friends easily; Brennan was certainly no expert in such matters, but the bond between he and Tripp seemed a very healthy step for her partner.

"Yeah?" Booth smiled. "God, Tripp'll probably love it – he's all about family bonding and woman power and all that – " he stopped himself, glancing in the backseat as though just remembering his son's presence. "Uh, anyway… Maybe it won't be so bad after all." He nodded his head at the package resting on the seat beside Parker. "So, Bones, spill – what'd we get for baby Hodgela, anyway?"

She looked at him blankly. "How would I know what you got?"

He furrowed his brow, giving her that look that implied she was being purposely dense. "Come on, Bones – _we. _I haven't exactly been in Baby Country for the past week and a half… I figured, you know, we could just go in on the thing together."

"That's what Mom and Brent always do," Parker informed her from the backseat. Booth quickly looked back at him, then at Brennan, before returning his attention to the road.

"What'd I tell you about that, Parks?" he asked.

Brennan looked back over her shoulder curiously. Parker rolled his eyes at her, as though they were somehow similarly afflicted with Booth's occasional wisdoms.

"I know, Dad – Brent and Mom are two different people from you and Bones, and you guys aren't always gonna do things the same way. That's why I can't say anything about the hou – "

"House of Pancakes," Booth interrupted quickly, looking slightly flushed. "That's great, Parks, now that surprise is ruined."

"But we always go to the House of Pancakes on Sunday mornings when you have Parker," Brennan said skeptically, well aware that there was something more going on between the two. "How would that have been a surprise?"

"Dad, puh-leeeeeze can I tell her? It's not like you already bought the – "

"Hey, hey, hey," Booth said quickly. "What about top secret do you not understand, Parker? Jeez." He gave Parker a reassuring smile as he said this, but Brennan could tell he was shaken – which only served to pique her curiosity that much more. "Okay – look, Bones, it's no big deal. We were just talking, and now it's gonna sound like this huge thing, and it's not a huge thing. At all. It's not even a little thing. It's just, you know…"

"Dad wants me and him to build you a house!" Parker exclaimed excitedly.

"I just said I wanted us to build a house, pal – I didn't say I wanted to build it for _Bones,_" Booth amended, looking quite alarmed.

"You did too, Dad," Parker argued. "Mr. Stevens was talking about building a house with Toby and Alex – those are his kids, Bones – and how Mrs. Stevens was crazy about it but she hadn't even hammered in a single nail, and you said, 'I bet if we built a house, Bones would be there working everyday,' and you said she'd watch you like a hawk to make sure you got everything just right. And then Mr. Stevens said Bones sounds like a real ball bus – "

"PARKER!" Booth cut him off. Despite his somewhat alarming revelation, Brennan couldn't help but laugh at Booth's reaction. Which made Parker laugh, though Booth didn't appear to see the humor in the conversation.

Her partner grimaced. "So, does this mean you're not freaked out about building a house?"

She considered the question. "I suppose it depends on when you wanted to build the house. And where. And – it is a hypothetical house at this point, correct?"

"It's getting more hypothetical by the minute, Bones."

A hypothetical house, built by her and Booth and Parker. In her experience, Booth's hypotheticals had an alarming tendency to come true rather quickly once she'd acknowledged that she was willing to take them into consideration. For example, her agreement that a hypothetical weekend in Costa Rica would not be unwelcome had resulted in a mad dash to the airport less than six hours later, just a month ago. When she'd said that she wouldn't hypothetically be opposed to him leaving a few things at her apartment to make the morning routine simpler, the next day she'd found half her vanity filled with his hair products and shaving accessories, and an odd assortment of ties and dress shirts hanging in her closet.

Hypothetically, he could be breaking ground within the week.

"At some point, in the future," she said carefully. "I _may _not be opposed to us considering building a house together. In the future."

"Well yeah, Bones – I wasn't actually looking at acreage just yet. We were just talkin'. You know how it goes."

She actually didn't have the slightest idea how it went, but she didn't say that.

They rode the rest of the way to the International House of Pancakes with Parker chattering enthusiastically about his adventures over the weekend. Brennan tried to focus on what he was saying, but instead found herself considering Booth's words. A house? It seemed as though they'd just started dating – Angela called this the honeymoon phase, despite the fact that she and Booth clearly were not married. Nevertheless, she acknowledged that she was enjoying this stage of the relationship; she just wished Booth didn't seem intent on moving beyond it quite so quickly.

She was quiet through much of breakfast, and still quiet on the way to Hodgins's house, her gaze fixed on the festive Christmas lights and a thin blanket of snow that had fallen over the city the day before. It was early December, and she felt unprepared for the holiday season; for whatever expectations came along with having a partner like Booth and a child like Parker in her life, both of whom loved Christmas and everything associated with it. She considered once more how to relate her own activities over the past week, and found herself at a loss.

Several times, she caught Booth watching her with what seemed very much like anxiety. When she was finally pulled out of her reverie, however, it was by Parker rather than her partner. As they got closer to the Hodgins estate, she noticed that the little boy had become increasingly quiet himself – though apparently for very different reasons than her.

"Hey, Bones?" he said, just as they were passing through security at Jack's front gate.

She turned and looked at him, seated in the back with a pensive expression similar to one Booth wore whenever something was bothering him.

"Yes, Parker?" she asked.

He hesitated for a moment, bit his lip, and finally asked his question. "Is Angela really gonna name her baby Blue?"

She couldn't hide her smile. The name was one Angela had chosen apparently as soon as she realized she was pregnant, based on an abstract image that had come to mind the night that she and Jack conceived.

"She may change her mind before the baby comes, but right now, yes. I believe that's the name she's considering."

Booth rolled his eyes – she'd been having the same argument with him for months now.

"There's nothing wrong with having a unique name," she told them both. "In ancient civilizations, an unusual name was considered a sign of distinguishment."

Father and son made identical faces conveying their skepticism on this point.

"Parks, it'll be fine," Booth said over his shoulder. "With Angela and Hodgins as his parents, I'm sure the kid'll have bigger things to worry about than a weird name."

Parker remained silent. They were just pulling up in the circular driveway in front of the sizable main house when the little boy spoke again.

"It's just – kids can tease about stuff. Especially names. And Dad, you said you and Bones will be his god-Mom and god-Dad. So… I'll be like his god-brother, right?"

Booth gave Brennan a smile – an oddly intimate smile, a combination of amusement and understanding and familiarity that unbalanced her, somehow. She was part of this family, she realized – whether she was ready or not. These were the discussions she'd somehow become part of, in only three months' time.

"Yeah, Parks," Booth told his son. "I guess that sounds about right."

"And brothers look out for each other," Parker continued with his line of reasoning, "like you and Uncle Jared, right?"

Booth nodded again. He parked the SUV at the curb, one of a dozen vehicles that had already arrived. Brennan scanned the license plates, her stomach tightening uncomfortably when she noted that three were from local rental agencies. Eventually, she really was going to need to tell Booth how she'd spent the past week – and clearly, it would need to be sooner rather than later.

"So, what's your point, bub? Out with it, before your baby god-brother's ready for college."

Parker didn't smile at all, despite his father's light tone. "I just don't know if I'm tough enough to be big brother to somebody named Blue," he said seriously. "It's gonna be a lot of work, keeping kids from teasing a little boy like that."

Booth broke into a grin, but Brennan found herself more touched than amused. She wondered if Booth understood what an incredible impression he made on his son; how much like his father Parker was becoming as he got older.

"Don't worry about it, bub," Booth reassured him. "We've still got four months to talk Angela out of Blue. I'm sure if we work really hard, we can do it."

Parker looked relieved. "That's good, Dad. I just don't think I can handle that kind of pressure."

* * *

On the way in, Booth insisted on carrying Angela's gift, staggering exaggeratedly under the weight.

"Jeez, Bones, what the heck did you get, anyway?"

She felt her face go warm. The entire process of selecting a gift for her godchild-to-be had been singularly disconcerting. She'd done research, gone to countless baby stores, spoken with experts and read essays, and at the end of it all, had still found herself completely at a loss as to what she could possibly purchase to adequately commemorate the birth of her best friend's first child.

"You'll see," she said. She chewed on her lip for a moment. "Though I did want to talk to you about it. I went…"

Booth looked at her curiously, his eyebrows raised.

She took a deep breath, switching directions abruptly. Chickening out – wasn't that what Booth would call it? "I wasn't certain what to get. I wish you'd been here," she said honestly. "You would have been better at choosing something. I'm not good at these types of rituals."

He smiled at her – a genuine smile, devoid of the anxiety or deeper meanings she'd sensed over the course of the morning. He tucked the gift under one arm and draped the other around her shoulders, pulling her to him and kissing her temple before he said quietly,

"I'm sure you did fine, Bones. You're better at this stuff than you think."

Inside Jack's estate, the doorman met them and offered to take their coats. Parker's eyes widened as he took in the vast entryway, the marble staircase, the fountain in the expansive foyer.

"This is where Angela and Dr. Hodgins live?" he whispered, slipping his hand into Brennan's.

She shook her head. "I think this is where Hodgins's parents live. He and Angela moved into a smaller house at the other side of the property."

Parker nodded. She was running out of time, she realized – they followed the doorman down a high-ceilinged, wide corridor with shining floors and crystal chandeliers. The sound of laughter echoed through the home as they approached the parlor where the party was being held. Booth's hand was at the small of her back, Parker's hand still in her own.

If she was going to tell Booth before they got there – and he found out on his own, which would inevitably be worse – she needed to do it now.

She stopped walking. Booth and Parker stopped short beside her, father and son looking at her with similar expressions of confusion.

"Something wrong, Bones?"

She shook her head. "No – I just… Someone's going to be at the party, who you're probably not expecting."

He grimaced. "Is it Angela's father? Because that guy – I know he's a rock n' roller and I'm sure he's a stand-up guy, but… He gives me the creeps."

"No. I mean – he may be there, I'm not certain. But…"

Parker was looking at her with wide eyes, as was the doorman they were supposed to be following. As was Booth. She hesitated once more, shifting uncomfortably.

"Hey, Parks," Booth said smoothly, "why don't you follow Jeeves here on over to the party. We'll catch up to you in a second."

Parker looked unhappy, but he didn't argue. Booth handed Angela's gift to the doorman, and they didn't speak until both Parker and the gentleman were out of sight. Once they were alone again, Booth crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head.

"All right, Bones – you've been trying to figure a way to tell me all morning, so out with it. Who's the mystery guest?"

"TJ," she finally said.

Booth looked at her blankly.

"TJ Wright," she elaborated.

This got more of a response. "The same TJ Wright who would've run away with you in a heartbeat back in Oregon, if I hadn't been standing in his way? The one who showed up at your place at seven am and ogled you while I made him and all his degenerate friends breakfast? What the hell's he doing here?" His body had tensed immediately upon receiving the news, his jawline tight.

"I invited him. I ran into him last week, and I – he… We were talking, and then last night he called. He's working on a book…"

Booth groaned. "Please don't tell me he's using that whole bogus research angle."

She bristled at his tone. "It's not bogus – I write, Booth, I know research is necessary. He asked if he could spend a week observing my work at the Jeffersonian. It seemed a harmless request."

"Yeah, sure it did." A moment of confusion crossed his face. "Wait – where the hell did you run into him? He's not living around here, is he?" Clearly, the thought was not a welcome one.

"In Portland," she said, refusing to allow anymore trepidation into her voice. She was a grown woman – she could travel wherever she wanted, whenever she pleased.

Booth's eyebrows rose. "You went to _Oregon_ while I was gone? And you're just now mentioning it? Why the hell did you go to Oregon?"

"It's a long story – it won't make sense until after you see the gift, anyway. Just… I went to Oregon. While I was there, I spent a night in Portland, at Jamie's apartment," she explained, the story coming out in a jumble now that she was finally telling him.

There wasn't enough time to tell him everything – to tell him what it had been like returning to Portland three months later, seeing the aftermath of the havoc that had been wrought during her last visit there. To describe meeting up with Jamie, the writer she'd befriended during the Portland workshops… How the woman had installed a security system after everything that had transpired, and was now guardian to the two bulldogs orphaned by the serial murderers who nearly killed Brennan one cold, rainy night on a mountaintop in Washington.

She took a breath. "I went out to dinner with Jamie and Caleb and TJ," she explained. "We started talking. He called last night, as a result of that conversation."

There was more that she'd meant to explain to him when she told him this: how strange it had felt walking Portland without him, what it was like to return to the park by the river and think of that weekend she'd spent with he and Parker. But she couldn't seem to get any of that out – just the facts. A trip to Portland, a conversation with TJ.

"And he'll be here? At Angela's baby shower?"

She bit her lip. "I invited him. He seems to be… going through something. I'm not entirely sure if that's accurate," she admitted. "But he seems agitated."

"He's agitated because he's in love with you!" Booth exploded, speaking loudly enough for his words to carry easily to the party down the corridor.

Brennan's eyes widened, her own body tightening in response to his reaction. Now, she remembered why she'd been so reluctant to bring this up. While in Oregon, they'd already had one argument about her relationship with TJ, a former foster child himself who'd had similar experiences to her own while in the system. Booth had always seemed fine when she'd been around men in the past – even the ones she'd been dating – but for some reason, he was completely illogical when it came to TJ.

"I didn't tell you so we could fight about it – I told you so you wouldn't be taken by surprise when we arrived and he was here," she told him, speaking in a loud whisper.

Booth nodded, turning away from her for a moment as he seemingly worked to get his temper back under control.

"And he's here for a week?" he asked, sounding calmer now.

"Until next Sunday - he'll be traveling over the holidays, so he needs to get back to Oregon before then to prepare."

Another nod. "He's not staying with you, right? I mean – the guy just sold a book, he should be able to afford a hotel."

She crossed her arms over her chest and said coolly, "He's not staying with me."

Booth imitated her posture, quirking an eyebrow. "Well… Good."

"Good."

He uncrossed his arms and took a step closer to her, his eyes studying her own. "Anything else happen while I was gone that I should know about?" He looked insecure, uncharacteristically vulnerable for a moment. "I mean, you didn't run off to Bolivia and get married or anything. You're not pregnant with Brad Pitt's love child, no out-of-control dance parties while I was out in the woods for a week…"

She hesitated, her eyes skating from his for just a moment. He caught the look – she could tell by the way his posture straightened slightly, a combination of surprise and concern crossing his face.

"No, Booth. No marriages, pregnancies, or dance parties," she said. It didn't sound true to her; she suspected it sounded even less so to Booth. She nodded toward the parlor. "We should probably go in, they'll be waiting."

He nodded. His entire bearing was different now, the mood between them suddenly tense and uncertain. She wished they didn't have to go in – wished she'd said no to TJ; that she had enough common sense to just be able to go into a damned baby store and pick out a stuffed bear like anyone else on the planet and be done with it. Wished she could just tell Booth what was on her mind without feeling as though by doing so she was putting everything in jeopardy.

She wished she didn't think so much.

Of course, she said none of these things. Instead, she walked beside Booth down the wide corridors, past priceless works of art and giant potted palms, to the parlor where their friends waited. Brennan was not looking forward to the party.

* * *

The parlor where the shower was being held was a large, sunny, modern room with high ceilings and shining black floors, filled with so much plant life that it seemed more botanical garden than sitting room. Angela had decorated with a Native American theme, using rich, earthy colored tapestries, paintings, and a smattering of tasteful, baby-specific decorations. Considering the theme, Brennan felt slightly more at ease about her gift – though certainly not entirely.

Since returning from Portland at the beginning of September, she and Booth had made a conscious decision to be open with their co-workers about the shifting nature of their relationship. Brennan had initially been concerned that interacting with their friends outside of work would feel awkward, but Booth was surprisingly reserved in social settings. He seemed to look to her for cues as to what she found acceptable; more often than not, she was the one who initiated contact, taking his hand or occasionally leaning in to kiss him when no one seemed to be paying attention. He never failed to respond with a surprised smile – almost as though he still couldn't quite believe they were together.

Today, however, he made a point of draping his arm across her shoulders just before they went into the room. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans she thought fit him particularly well, with a black jersey and, of course, his absurd belt buckle. Though he did look fatigued, Brennan still thought he was the best looking man in the room by a very wide margin.

About a dozen guests were scattered in plush, comfortable-looking chairs throughout the room. Brennan spotted Cam and Tripp, and immediately felt more relaxed. Sweets and Daisy were also in attendance, as were several of the other interns rotating their time in the Medico-Legal lab. It took a moment before Brennan found TJ, seated next to two women discussing something with apparent enthusiasm. His blonde hair was stylishly unkempt, his jeans tattered and his lean frame flatteringly accentuated by a charcoal gray sweater.

He smiled when he caught Brennan's eye, and Booth's arm tightened around her shoulders.

Parker was having an animated conversation with Jack, but stopped abruptly as soon as Booth entered the room.

"Hey!" Jack said, greeting them at the entrance with a warm hug. Since learning of Angela's pregnancy, he'd become more… open, Brennan thought. Slightly more effusive, certainly more emotional.

"Glad you guys could make it. I was just telling Parker here that we've got a pool out at the back of the house, and he says you guys remembered his trunks. So… If it's okay with you, there are already a few kids out there."

Parker grinned, his eyes raised toward Booth. "Can I go, Dad?"

Booth hesitated, until Jack seemed to understand his concern. "There's a lifeguard on duty – CPR certified and everything. He'll be fine."

After another moment's hesitation, Booth shrugged. "Yeah, Parks – sure, go ahead. But you listen to what the lifeguard says, right? No horsing around, no running, no peeing in the pool."

Parker rolled his eyes, blushing slightly. Brennan had noticed that the boy seemed to be asserting his independence more recently, a natural step in the growth process of any adolescent. Booth, however, seemed less willing to accept this step.

"I know, Dad," he said, whispering loudly. "I'll be okay."

They watched the doorman lead Parker away, then returned their attention to the party. Booth had dropped his arm from Brennan's shoulders during the exchange, but kept his hand at the small of her back as he led them inside. Angela came over and greeted them both with a hug and kiss. She gave Booth a sweet smile, nudging his hip with her own.

"Hey, stranger – good to have you back. We missed you around the office." She looked at Brennan significantly, a devilish glint in her eye. "Right, Bren?"

Booth barely acknowledged the comment, instead nodding toward Angela's barely-swollen stomach. "What's the deal with this kid anyway, Angela? This is what, goin' on five months? You're supposed to be packing it on by now. What've I gotta do, come out here and cook for you myself?"

Jack came over and put an arm around Angela's shoulders. "That first trimester was a bitch, man. Now that we've got the nausea behind us, though, it should be easy to start putting some weight on."

Angela gave him a long-suffering look. "Y'know, this whole 'we' crap is really getting old. I didn't see you puking in garbage cans in between cases at the lab, and I definitely don't think it'll be your ankles swollen to bursting or your twa – "

"Okay!" Jack said quickly, clapping his hands as he flashed a concerned glance at his girlfriend. "Enough small talk, let's say we get on with the party."

Booth looked at them both in amusement, seemingly enjoying Jack's discomfort. The amusement faded, however, when TJ came over to join them. Angela and Jack seemed only too happy to flee, while Booth merely stood watching as Brennan awkwardly returned the other man's welcoming embrace. Once they'd parted, TJ extended his hand toward Booth, who shook it with a notable lack of warmth.

"Seeley, it's good to see you again. I really appreciate you letting me tag along this week – it'll be huge for the book."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Booth said dryly.

Thankfully, there was little time for small talk between the three of them once the festivities began. Upbeat music played while guests made their way through an elaborate buffet, before taking part in a few absurd baby shower games that seemed to be conspicuously centered around an open bar at the far end of the room.

After an hour of mingling and laughter and general revelry, Parker returned for food and gifts. His hair was wet and a towel was draped around his shoulders, three giggling girls approximately his age following close behind him. Brennan noted that TJ was mingling with apparent ease with everyone he met, while Booth and Brennan had barely had time to speak with one another between games and small talk with other guests. Once Parker returned, however, the trio filled their plates and took seats away from all the activity to talk. Parker sat down next to Booth, occasionally looking over his shoulder at the girls who were still clearly watching his every move.

"Make a few friends there, Parks?" Booth whispered to him.

Parker blushed furiously. "Ssh, Dad," he whispered back. "Don't say anything, okay? Please?"

Booth caught Brennan's eye with another of those intimate smiles he'd given her earlier, and she couldn't help but return it this time. There was no denying it – somewhere along the lines, this had indeed become her life.

When it came time to open the gifts, Brennan began to doubt the wisdom of her choice all over again. Lingerie, baby clothes, a book on sex during pregnancy, enough stuffed animals to fill a wildlife habitat, and a surprisingly large stack of packages that were to be opened when children weren't present… It seemed to Brennan that everyone in the room had some unique gene that made rituals like shopping for baby showers come naturally. As a result, their gifts were fun and whimsical, thoughtful without being overdone.

There was a ripple of laughter when Angela opened a gift card from Sweets for a year of complimentary psychotherapy, once the baby reached adolescence.

"I figure with a name like Blue…" Sweets joked, grinning sheepishly.

Brennan didn't miss the significant glance exchanged between Booth and Parker, though father and son remained surprisingly silent.

Cam and Tripp had stuffed bears specially made in the likenesses of Jack and Angela, complete with microscope and artist's palette, a newborn bear in Angela-bear's arms. When it was finally time to open Brennan's gift, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Booth's arm was draped casually around the back of her chair – he gave her an encouraging smile as Jack placed the bulky package on Angela's lap.

"Okay, I've been _dying _to open this," Angela said. She shook it experimentally, examining the rectangular package from every angle. "Hmm. Let me guess: tricycle for the big guy's third birthday?"

Brennan bit her lip, aware that this was a joke. "If you don't like it – " she hesitated. "Well, it's not possible for me to return it, but I could get you something else."

Angela waved her off. "Relax, sweetie, I'll love it. I just have to…" She turned it upside down again, apparently searching for the best way to open it.

"For Pete's sake, Angela, just open it already," Booth said impatiently. "Some of us want to know what the hell we got you."

More laughter followed the comment. Brennan noticed the mother of one of Parker's admirer's studying her partner with clear predatory appraisal; she resisted the urge to take Booth's hand or move in closer. Or go over and kick the woman in the tibia.

When Angela had finally managed to unwrap her gift and open the box inside, there was a long moment of silence. Brennan grew even more anxious, the anxiety subsiding only when Angela looked up.

"Oh my god," her friend said softly, her dark eyes shining with tears. "Bren."

Brennan stood awkwardly, gesturing toward the gift. "It's a cradleboard. There's a craftsman from the Umatilla reservation who makes them – I worked on a case for him several years ago. He agreed to make this one for you."

Angela lifted the piece from its box, studying the intricate beadwork. The room was still, everyone seemingly fixated on the gift.

"It's… Bren, there are no words. It's perfect."

"I told him about your… vision – the colors, the marigold and the blue and the way it swirled. I don't know that I did the story justice, but he seemed to understand." She fell silent for a moment, remembering the three days she'd spent at the Umatilla reservation in western Oregon the previous week. "I told him about you and Jack, and then he spent an entire night meditating on the information I'd given him. To ensure a lucky life for the child, the project must be completed in a single day – he began at dawn, and wasn't finished until nearly midnight."

Both Jack and Angela embraced her tightly, crushing her so that she could barely breathe.

"Thanks, Dr. Brennan," Jack whispered in her ear. "It's…" He stepped back, looking at her with his blue eyes bright. "Wow. Seriously, this is phenomenal."

Brennan sat back down, feeling both triumphant and slightly uncomfortable at the attention she was receiving as a result of the gift. After a moment or two, she realized Booth was watching her. She turned.

"What?" she asked, feeling suddenly defensive.

He smiled and took her hand. "Nothin', Bones." He shook his head. "You just... Every so often, you kind of stop my heart." He lowered his eyes quickly, as though embarrassed by his words.

Brennan studied him for a moment before she kissed him gently on the cheek, laying her head on his shoulder as the party continued. He leaned in and whispered in her ear.

"So – you know this morning wasn't the real welcome home, right?" he asked softly. Intellectually, Brennan knew there were two dozen guests just a few feet away and Parker just two seats down, but the rough timbre of Booth's voice elicited an unmistakable physical response. She struggled to keep her thoughts in line.

"I assumed not," she whispered back. "Five minutes in the shower hardly compensates for ten days' absence."

He grinned wolfishly, keeping his voice low. "So, how long do we have to stay at this thing?"

She glanced around. Everyone seemed to have settled in for a long day, and Angela wasn't even halfway through her gifts. Parker, likewise, seemed to sense that the end was still quite far off. The boy cleared his throat, and she quickly removed her head from Booth's shoulder.

"Dad, do you think it'd be okay if I went back to the pool?"

Brennan noticed that the three girls from before were standing at the parlor entrance, apparently waiting for him. Naturally, the fact didn't escape Booth's attention, either. He smiled, but said nothing.

"Sure, Parks. Just take it easy – we'll probably head out in about an hour."

Once Parker left, his smile widened to a proud grin. "Didja see that?" he asked Brennan. "The kid's a chip off the old block."

* * *

While Angela took a break from the gifts a short time later, Cam and Tripp came to sit beside them, followed shortly thereafter by Sweets. Before long, Brennan had almost completely forgotten about the baby shower, the five co-workers intently discussing the details of a case. All discussion ceased, however, when the guest of honor stalked over to interrupt the conversation.

"Okay, what the hell are you doing?" Angela demanded. She was definitely unhappy – Brennan had seen that glower many times before, and there was no mistaking it.

"What do you mean?" Booth asked innocently. "We're just sitting here talking – mingling. It's a party, right? We're partying."

"No," Angela said quickly. "You most definitely are _not_ partying – the five of you are just sitting here like anti-social freaks. What are you talking about?"

She looked directly at Brennan, who hesitated only a moment. Somehow, she was certain that whatever she said would be the wrong answer.

"We were discussing a set of remains found near Lake Woebegone last week – "

"That's right," Angela pounced. "Remains. Do you know what your pal TJ over there is talking about?" she asked, nodding toward the writer. He was standing amidst a group of people likely in their early twenties, all of whom seemed to be listening attentively.

"What?" Brennan asked, genuinely curious.

"I don't know, but I can damned well tell you it ain't human remains," Angela said. "Hell, Sweets, even Daisy's managed to come up with a couple of topics outside of moral degenerates and blood and guts. I expected this from _some_ of you – " this directed quite plainly at Brennan – "but, Seeley, didn't you used to be _normal_? Have normal conversations, about normal, non blood-and-guts related things?"

"Hey," Booth said defensively. "I'm still normal. I've just been in the woods for the past week and a half, and I thought it'd be nice to get caught up on everything that happened while I was gone."

Angela softened, albeit slightly. "Well… Okay, that's actually a valid excuse – I forgot you've been out in the boondocks playing GI Joe with Tripp. So, you're excused. And Tripp, you get a pass. But the rest of you…"

Booth stared morosely at a group of strangers clustered around the buffet. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to talk to someone outside the squint squad or the Feds," he admitted. "All right, I'm goin' in." He took a breath, then turned to Tripp. "Got my back?"

Tripp smiled, looking apologetically at Cam. "Sorry, hon – duty calls."

The two men stood, Angela promptly taking Booth's place as they walked away.

"They really are too cute," she said, directing the comment to Cam. Her good humor had apparently returned.

Cam nodded her agreement. "They are. Seeley's teetering just a little too close to pathetic for comfort, but… at least he's got good taste."

"Seriously, right?" Angela agreed enthusiastically. "God, he's got it bad. I haven't seen a case like this since Zack met Booth."

Brennan listened cluelessly before breaking in. "Who has what bad? I have no idea what you're talking about."

Cam lowered her voice conspiratorially. Sweets leaned in, clearly enjoying being part of the circle, until Angela glanced witheringly at him.

"I'll just – uh, I guess I'll just join the guys. You know, with the mingling."

Once the women were alone, Cam shrugged. "There's no reason to make it some huge thing – Seeley's just got a little bit of a man crush on my boyfriend."

"I'd hardly call it little," Angela argued.

"What? No, he does not," Brennan said uncertainly, then hesitated. "Wait – I don't think I know what that means."

"Relax, sweetie," Angela said. "It's totally harmless. Jack gets them constantly. It's just… Seeley wants to be Tripp when he grows up. It's really pretty cute."

"Booth actually reached physical maturity several years ago, and intellectually speaking, the brain – " She stopped at a glance from both Angela and Cam. "But, clearly you're speaking metaphorically."

"Seeley just sees some admirable traits in Tripp that he'd like to emulate," Cam said helpfully.

"Ah," Brennan nodded. "That would seem an accurate assessment." She lowered her voice, smirking slightly. "He actually does talk about Tripp quite a bit. And you'd think after spending an entire week together, they wouldn't have quite so much to discuss now."

Angela and Cam looked at each other as though this were to be expected, and shrugged. "Man crush," they said simultaneously.

The men in question returned a moment later, with refilled plates and Sweets close on their heels.

"You happy now?" Booth asked. "I got a recipe for crab dip, a stock tip I don't even understand, and some lady's phone number."

Brennan looked up, her brow furrowed in irritation. "Wait – what lady?"

He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Why? Jealous?"

"Of course not," she said immediately – though she had to admit to an uncomfortable tightening in her stomach at the idea. "Jealousy is merely an – "

"Yeah, Bones," Booth said exasperatedly. "I know – I've heard all your squinty theories on jealousy, okay? You don't get jealous – I get it."

He sat back down beside her, sliding his plate onto her knee. "Now – I got way too much food, help me eat something, huh? I got some of that veggie chili you like." He handed her an extra fork, which she took wordlessly.

These were the things that struck her about dating Seeley Booth – the simple, unexpected gestures that seemed to come so naturally to him: a spare fork and an extra helping of a vegetarian dish he wouldn't dream of touching himself; how, when she commented in passing that she liked a particular song, it would mysteriously appear on her playlist the next time she used her ipod. How, despite arguing about it almost nightly, he was invariably the one to make sure the coffee would be ready when she got up in the morning. He'd told her before that being in love was about the little moments, the details, and she thought she was beginning to understand what he'd meant by that.

She took the fork, keeping her eyes on her food as she admitted quietly, "Occasionally, I may experience feelings akin to those traditionally designated as jealousy."

He tried to pretend he wasn't pleased, but failed miserably. Their eyes caught for a long moment; she wished, suddenly, that they could abandon everything they were supposed to do for the rest of the day, and just return home to spend the afternoon in bed.

Since that clearly wasn't logical, however, she contented herself with a helping of vegetarian chili con carne, Booth's shoulder solidly against her own.

It was nearly three o'clock when guests began departing the premises, Angela's gifts opened and the buffet decimated. Tripp was telling an amusing anecdote about Booth's performance at the field training when Sweets reappeared at their side looking somewhat uncomfortable.

"Daisy and I are gonna get going. I know this isn't the most opportune time to bring this up, but since Booth was gone all of last week there was little time for – "

Booth gave him a look. "Spit it out, Sweets. What's the problem?"

The psychologist looked at Cam as though for salvation. She gave him a sympathetic smile, but merely shrugged.

"Don't look at me – this is your deal."

Brennan felt a slight twinge of uneasiness.

"It's not a big deal," Sweets said hurriedly. "And it wasn't even my idea – this is all on the Bureau. So far, they've been content to work around the clause against partners engaging in a non-professional relationship where the two of you are concerned, given that Dr. Brennan isn't strictly under the FBI's employ."

"Which makes perfect sense," Brennan said. "Besides which, our relationship outside work has no bearing on how we conduct ourselves professionally."

Sweets hesitated. "Well – and, again, I'd like to stress that this was most definitely not my idea – they'd actually like something a little more formal than just the two of you saying it has no bearing on your work."

"So, take a look at our record," Booth said quickly. "It's only gotten better over the past five years – and right now it's the best it's ever been."

The psychologist nodded. "Which is exactly why the Bureau's let this go so long. But now – well, they, uh… They'd like someone to conduct a formal review."

"Someone meaning you," Booth said shortly. "When?" His humor had darkened considerably since the revelation.

"Well, uh… Starting tomorrow, for two weeks, I'm to shadow you on any cases. Then, I'm to provide the Bureau with a complete analysis of how you're… uh, shifting personal relationship, is impacting your work."

"But I already have TJ following me at the Jeffersonian this week," Brennan protested.

Cam looked up at this. "I'm sorry? Your writer friend? I don't recall signing off on that, Dr. Brennan."

She despised it when Cam took that tone – it felt as though she was being called to task by the principal. Not that that had ever happened during her school career, but she could imagine that this would be how it felt.

"He just asked me yesterday – he won't be assisting, merely observing."

"Well, that's just great," Booth grumbled. "So, we've got Hemingway and Freud riding shotgun all week? I wish I'd just stayed in the woods."

Brennan was still trying to come up with a persuasive reason as to why Sweets should simply abandon the review, when Booth's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID, grimaced, and excused himself. She watched curiously as he took the call at the far side of the room. It was clear from his body posture that it was a fellow agent – there was always a perceptible shift in his attitude when he was speaking with someone from work.

A moment later, he returned having lapsed fully into Working Booth mode, and attempted to pull her up by the arms. "C'mon, Bones – time to go."

She pushed his hands away. "Booth, I can actually stand on my own, you know. What is it?"

"I'll tell you on the way. C'mon."

Cam looked at him. "You guys need a hand?"

He hesitated. "All we've got is bones so far, but I'm gonna need you guys in the lab pretty quick."

"Before tomorrow morning?" Tripp wanted to know. He didn't seem particularly surprised, but Brennan also didn't think he looked that pleased.

"Nah," Booth said quickly. "It looks like the remains are kind of old, so a few hours won't make much difference."

Angela and Jack came over, with TJ following behind. "Let me guess," Angela said. "There's a dead body that can't possibly wait 'til after the party."

Booth looked genuinely sorry, if only fleetingly. "Sorry, Ange – it was a great party." He kissed her cheek, then patted her stomach. "I'm bringin' your kid donuts tomorrow – there's no way vegetarian chili and crab dip's gonna do the trick. See you in the morning?"

Angela nodded. Sweets had rushed off a few moments earlier, but now reappeared pulling his jacket on.

"All right, I'm ready."

"Ready for what?" Booth asked darkly.

"The sooner this whole review process starts," Sweets said, "the sooner it'll be over. Why put off tomorrow what you can – "

"Fine," Booth interrupted. "But you sit in the back, and you keep quiet."

TJ came to stand beside Brennan. "What's going on?" he asked. There were shadows under his eyes that she hadn't noticed before, and a certain listlessness in his body posture – as though it required some effort to stand still.

"We've gotta get going, there's a body," Booth said, in response to the other man's question. "Sorry about that – you can catch up with Bones at the lab tomorrow."

Brennan started to protest, when Parker reappeared. This time, he was traveling alone – his pack of adolescent girls nowhere to be seen. For a moment, Booth looked as though he'd forgotten that his son was with them.

"We could take him home for you," Angela offered, seeming to sense his dilemma.

Booth shook his head. "Nah – Rebecca'd have my head if somebody else dropped him off. It's not far out of the way – I'll just drop him off, then head to the scene."

Brennan hesitated. In her experience, the longer local law enforcement had to plunder her crime scene, the more precious evidence was lost. "I could get there first to secure the scene," she said. "I just – perhaps I could borrow one of Jack's cars?" She directed the question to Angela, who nodded immediately.

"I could give you a ride," TJ jumped in quickly. "It's no problem."

Booth considered the issue for a moment, seemingly torn between preserving evidence and allowing TJ an entrance into the case.

"Yeah, fine," he finally relented. "But he stays back," he said to Brennan, indicating TJ with a nod of his head. "Behind the tape, right? I don't want him anywhere near the body."

She looked at him seriously. "Really? I thought he could stand in for you, perhaps gather some evidence or document the scene."

Booth started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut when he realized she was being sarcastic.

"You're funny, Bones," he said. He dropped a kiss on her lips, then glanced at TJ. It was clear to Brennan that he was unhappy with the arrangement. "I'll give you guys the specs at the car. Let's go."

* * *

Booth briefed her on the case at his truck while she retrieved her coveralls and kit from the back. Once she had everything, she stood beside him at the passenger side door and awaited his instructions.

"You have your gun?"

She rolled her eyes. "Booth, I'll be fine. Not everyone is bent on destroying me, you know."

He didn't look convinced. "I'll probably be about forty-five minutes behind you. Maybe less, if I can make up some time on the highway. Give me a call when you get there."

She nodded. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but she wasn't certain what.

"I should go," she finally said, when it appeared he would say nothing more.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Right. I'll just meet you there."

She leaned in and kissed him with perhaps more fervor than was strictly necessary - though he did look more relaxed after the kiss. He pulled her tight, whispering in her ear.

"Make sure Writer Boy knows he's driving home alone tonight. I've got plans for us."

She felt her heart rate increase incrementally, catalogued her body's predictable reaction to the words: a rush of chemicals, increased body temperature, a feeling that was half-languor, half-desire.

"I'll let him know," she promised.

"Good," Booth said shortly. Then, more loudly, "All right, Parks, you buckled in? Sweets, stop fooling around with the radio. Let's get this show on the road."

He kissed her again, quickly this time, and got into the truck. The week and a half apart and all the questions it had inspired were forgotten for the moment: it was time to get to work.

* * *

She found TJ standing at the passenger's side door of a shiny red rental car at the end of the driveway. Without hesitation, he handed her the keys and got in.

"You want me to drive?" she asked doubtfully.

He shrugged. "I don't know where the hell we're going – doesn't make a lot of sense for me to be behind the wheel."

"Oh." It was hardly logic with which she could argue; secretly pleased, she got in the driver's seat, started the engine, programmed the GPS with the coordinates Booth had provided, and they were off.

The details Booth had provided of the scene they were bound for were sketchy at best. Booth knew only that a human skeleton wrapped in a sheet was found at Lake Anna State Park roughly an hour before. Though it would be up to Brennan to confirm, preliminary reports were that the skeleton was small – potentially indicating that it belonged to a child. Adding to this suspicion was the presence of a laminated Missing Persons poster attached to the body. The assumption, then, was that the remains belonged to the child pictured.

Brennan didn't work with assumptions, however; she was anxious to get to the scene in order to ensure that it was viewed with objectivity and a level head. She had found in the past that people approached cases involving children too emotionally, leading to shoddy investigations and tainted evidence. It was up to her to ensure that that didn't happen in this instance.

She and TJ rode in silence for a short time, TJ staring out the window as though he wasn't completly present. He'd been like this when she'd seen him in Portland the week before, as well – distant, distracted… strained, somehow. It was a cold afternoon, the sky thick with clouds and snow in the forecast. As they were weaving through a festively lit neighborhood on the way to I-95, he finally spoke.

"Do you like Christmas?"

A simple enough question, really. She considered it for a moment; she'd actually had arguments about this with Booth before. If he had been the one asking the question, she realized that her response would be different – laced with defensiveness, a need to explain herself. With TJ, she could simply be honest.

"No," she admitted quietly.

He glanced at her quickly, with eyes that seemed to see something deeper than what someone else would have in similar circumstances.

"Me neither. They weren't good before my father died; they were a lot worse after. I can't seem to shake that."

They merged onto the highway just as the first flakes of snow began to fall. A worn pickup in front of them had an "Obama/Biden" bumper sticker on one side and another that said "Republicans for Voldemort," though Brennan didn't recall hearing that name during the elections. She suspected it was a joke, though clearly one she didn't get. She considered TJ's words.

"I had good Christmases as a child," she told him. "My father loved it, especially – we always had a tree and decorations. Gifts and traditions."

"That probably would've been worse," TJ said thoughtfully. "Knowing what you were missing, every year your parents were gone."

"I can't really answer that – I can't speak for other people's experiences, only my own. It made it difficult, however." She paused. Rephrased. "It makes it difficult, still. At times."

There was another brief silence, before TJ spoke again. "You have a nice life here – good friends, a good job." He sighed. "Plus you're dating an superhero, so… y'know, you've got that going for you."

"He's not a superhero," she said, rolling her eyes. "Booth has his flaws, just like anyone."

TJ seemed to lighten at this. "Oh yeah? What's say we go over each and every one of 'em – then I can tell you all the ways I'm better."

She frowned at the remark. "TJ."

"I know – sorry, over the line. It won't happen again." He paused. "Seriously, though… You do have a nice life here. I'm glad."

They continued on in silence until Brennan said hesitantly, "It is a good life." She should stop at that – she _knew _she should stop at that. And yet, she continued.

"But…" TJ prompted.

She bit her lip. The crime scene was still forty-five minutes away, and they had to talk about _something, _didn't they? "Booth wants us to build a house," she told him. Even though she knew, intellectually, that Booth hadn't meant he wanted to build a house _now. _Or even soon.

"Wow," TJ said. "That's a big step. Couldn't you just… you know, _buy_ a house?"

She shook her head. "I don't think it would be the same, for him."

"Buying's cheaper, especially right now," TJ said reasonably. "Though I guess you probably don't need to worry about that."

The issue of expense hadn't even occurred to her. Now that it had, she considered the prospect for a moment.

"I don't think he'd let me pay," she finally decided, speaking half to herself. "At least, not for all of it. And in all likelihood, he'd feel badly that he couldn't take care of all of it himself."

"Old fashioned," TJ said. It didn't sound like a judgment.

"Very." Brennan smiled, thinking of the myriad of ways Booth belonged in another era entirely.

"That can't be easy on a government salary. Does he have any other income?"

She shook her head. They spent the next several minutes discussing house payments and mortgages, building options and Booth's difficulty accepting that his partner made more money than him. After they'd delved into the subject for some time, Brennan suddenly had the feeling she was crossing some line – criticizing Booth behind his back, when that certainly hadn't been her intention. She fell silent.

They drove on.

The sky was darkening, the snow falling more heavily the farther into Virginia they drove. After another lengthy silence, TJ finally sighed. He'd gotten quiet again – his gaze fixed on the world outside, his mood perceptibly darker.

"You know, I'm not actually here just for research."

She tensed. "TJ, I – "

"Relax," he held up a hand to stop her, before she could continue. "You know how I feel about you – I'd swim the Seven Seas for a shot at us together. And I'm a terrible swimmer, so… But, you're happy. I'm not here to screw with that. I've got bigger fish to fry."

His story came out quickly after that. He started with the dreams he'd been having from the time it was discovered that Dr. Philip Taylor – a longtime family friend of TJ's – had been leading a double life as a sadistic serial killer for more than thirty years.

Brennan already knew the facts of TJ's father's murder: how his mother had shot the man one night when TJ was eight, before taking her son and going on the run for five years. When she was finally caught, she was sentenced to life in prison, and TJ was put in foster care. As far as Brennan knew, the case was fairly clear cut.

TJ, however, seemed to think differently.

"I know the case has been closed – that everyone's got their verdict, my mother's dead now… The story's over, right? But there are these little inconsistencies that I can't shake."

"There are always inconsistencies in a case," she informed him. "The facts don't always align as neatly as we would hope."

He didn't respond to this. After a few moments, curiosity got the better of her.

"What kind of inconsistencies?"

"Well," he began eagerly. "Like, for the five years that we were on the run, my mother always said she didn't do it – she wasn't the one who killed my father. Then, the cops caught up to us just south of Daytona, brought us back to Oregon, and she kept right on saying she didn't do it. Until this one day that I remember, because Dr. Taylor brought me to visit her – she was in jail then, waiting for the trial to start."

Brennan thought of the times she'd visited her father in prison, and tried to imagine being a child going through that experience. Then, that image was quickly replaced by that of Philip Taylor – the way he'd first appeared to her, as a harmless intellectual overseeing a writing program in Portland; and then, stalking her through a day and night of driving rain and unseasonable cold while she clung to the hope that Booth would come for her because she, seemingly, had lost the ability to save herself. And finally… Philip Taylor, his throat cut, his blood seeping into the rich mountain soil.

This shift in focus had become increasingly common since her return from Oregon: the unexpected flashbacks to that night, the corresponding increase in her heart rate and physical reactivity. Though safe in her car twenty-five hundred miles and several months later, her body was still preparing for the same fight.

"Were you with Dr. Taylor when he saw your mother?" she asked, keeping her voice even and her gaze steady on the road ahead.

She was becoming better at this part, she realized – pretending everything was fine; she was still in control and her body wasn't surging with misdirected adrenaline. Booth could always tell, though – he never said anything, but she knew he could. If he were here, he'd reach over and take her hand, eyes still on the road (because, of course _he'd_ be driving) and say quietly, "Just breathe, Bones." That was all. No more acknowledgment than that, but it would work. It always did. It occasionally drove her crazy that a simple change in her breathing could elicit a response from him… More often than not, though, she was simply grateful he was there.

TJ, of course, noticed nothing. He took a breath, shook his head in response to her question.

"No – I saw her for a few seconds, almost like he _wanted_ her to see us together. Then they made me wait outside the room while they talked."

"And you believe that's when she changed to a guilty plea," she surmised.

More silence. The GPS directed them to make a series of turns, before she began simply following the signs for Lake Anna State Park. Brightly lit houses gradually gave way to an unplowed public road lined with snow-trimmed evergreens beneath a sky boiled dark gray. Far ahead, she could see the blue lights of a police cruiser, the red of emergency vehicles. Against the backdrop of white snow and approaching night, someone who didn't know better might even say the scene was pretty.

Brennan knew better.

Finally, TJ cleared his throat. She suspected he'd been lost in the events he was relating – what had happened, where he'd been, all the events that followed. She could understand that.

"I'm not sure – I don't have the timeline right, I don't think. I was pretty young… There's a lot I don't remember."

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "In my experience working with Booth over the years, I've found that the simplest explanation truly is most frequently correct. If your mother was there the night your father was killed, and you heard them fighting, heard the shot and then she came to get you… I'm sorry, but it sounds fairly simple to me."

"I know," TJ agreed. "That's what I keep telling myself. But I can't stop thinking about the look on her face the day she saw me and Phil Taylor together."

She pulled the car to the curb just behind a cruiser with its lights flashing, and turned off the engine. The brief moment of anxiety she'd experienced before had passed – now, she had a case to ponder and a crime scene to investigate, two surefire ways to regain her focus. There was work to do.

And considering the chaos just outside her car window, that work would be considerably more difficult if she didn't begin immediately.

"If you'd like, I could speak with Booth," she told TJ. "He might be able to check into something for you."

He hesitated. She expected him to argue – to ask that she not involve her partner, though such a request would be illogical given Booth's area of expertise. Instead, TJ nodded gratefully.

"That's all I'm asking – you're probably right and it's nothing. But if the two of you could maybe look into it… Just read the file, see if you spot anything."

Brennan nodded: she could certainly do that much. Once she'd agreed to help, she got out of the car and quickly changed, pulling her coveralls on over her clothes. Her dress shoes were discarded in favor of work boots, her hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail.

"You!" she called to a sheriff's deputy who was standing beside another cruiser, talking to another cop. "I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan – Special Agent Booth should have called ahead, to tell you I was coming."

"Wow," TJ whispered to her. "It's like I just watched you morph from Diana Prince right before my eyes."

She grinned, pleased that she understood the reference. "Wonder Woman – that's good. I got that one."

When the deputy didn't respond, however, her good humor vanished. "Stay behind the tape, like Booth said," she told TJ. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

She stalked over to the two deputies, who looked at her with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

"Did you speak with Agent Booth? I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan, with the Jeffersonian Institute. Where are the remains?"

"I thought you were coming with Booth," the taller of the two men said.

"He'll be here shortly. The remains?" she repeated impatiently.

The shorter man straightened. "Here, I'll take you."

He walked to a well-marked trail and led the way a scant fifty yards along a level path before she saw the bright yellow police tape and orange flags marking the scene. Snow was still falling, and at least a dozen different sets of footprints were visible around the body. Booth would be furious.

"We're pretty sure it's that girl that went missing a few years back – the daughter of that cop down in Tennessee. I mean… That's who's on the poster, anyway."

Brennan ignored him. "That doesn't concern me – has anyone touched the body?"

"A couple hikers found it this afternoon – they're the ones who called it in. With the missing persons poster, we figured we'd better bring in the Feds."

She frowned, growing impatient. It seemed useless to waste anymore time questioning the man – instead, she stepped over the police tape and walked toward a bundle wrapped in a pale pink, cotton sheet. Being careful to watch where she stepped, she crouched down and pulled the sheet back.

The remains did indeed belong to a child, the sacrum still in development and the size and density of the bones suggesting a female between the ages of eight and ten years. A laminated poster was attached by a string tied around the radius and ulna; in it, a little girl with dark hair and glasses smiled into the camera. The word "Missing" was typed in a large, bold font, the vital statistics of the child listed to the left of the photo. For the moment, she ignored the document, focusing instead on the skeleton.

Booth arrived a short time later, while she was still studying what she'd found. Brennan noted that Sweets was with him, following a discreet distance behind.

"I thought you were gonna call when you got here?"

She looked up from where she was still crouching. Her knees ached from remaining in the position too long, and a dusting of snow had formed on her head and shoulders. It was dark now, the scene illuminated with flashlights and a few spotlights. More police had gathered, though they'd wisely stayed clear of Brennan and the body.

"Was I? Sorry, I forgot."

She knew him well enough to sense his eye roll, even if she couldn't see it. "Yeah, right. So, what've you got for me?"

She straightened. "A child – eight to ten years old, female. It's difficult to gauge time of death exactly this long after the fact without further analysis of the remains, but I'm confident saying she's been dead for at least a year. Possibly several."

"So, is it the kid in the poster?" one of the policeman on the sidelines wanted to know.

She shook her head. "I won't know with any certainty until we get the remains back to the lab. It's consistent with the photo and the information provided on the poster, however."

Booth didn't look happy about this, but said nothing.

"So, we'll want the remains boxed up and sent to the Jeffersonian," he instructed two officers standing by. "Evidence bagged and tagged, and…" he made a face, clearly annoyed. "I'm gonna need boot prints of the fifty or so deputies who've been wandering around here, before I can even start making sense of what we've got."

They set to work, Booth overseeing while Brennan continued a rudimentary analysis and then set up her laptop to research some possible scenarios for cause of death. After two hours and at least another two to come, Brennan instructed TJ to take Sweets home, and told him she would see him in the morning.

She continued working.

* * *

It was nine o'clock by the time she and Booth left the scene and headed for home. Once they were on the road, Brennan wasn't certain precisely when the tone of the conversation changed; she wasn't even entirely certain why. She knew only that they'd been discussing the case, and suddenly Booth said casually,

"So, did you and TJ have a good ride out here?"

She hesitated. "You were right," she said reluctantly. "He's not here solely to observe my work." He glanced in her direction, but it was impossible to read his expression in the darkness.

"Oh, yeah?" his tone was cautious, even. Waiting. "So, why _is _he here?"

"He wants us to investigate his father's murder. After discovering the deaths Philip Taylor was responsible for, he believes the man may have had some involvement in his father's death, as well."

There was silence, for several seconds. Then: "I could look into it, if you want. Pull the files, ask a few questions."

She smiled, relieved. She reached for his hand, her fingers entwined with his – enjoying the strength in his grip, the solidity of his presence.

"Thank you – I know he'll appreciate that."

They rode on in silence, Brennan caught between fatigue after several hours spent crouched over a body in the cold, and the desire Booth's proximity inspired after his time away. The snowfall was heavier now, though it was still too warm to accumulate very much once they'd reached the highway. Booth's hand stilled in her own, and she felt the weight of a question he wasn't asking – something she'd never thought possible before him. But four months in a romantic relationship and four years in a partnership with Seeley Booth had taught her to read his silences.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked, brow furrowed.

He shook his head quickly. "Nah – everything's fine. I just…" he paused. "That thing Parker was talking about earlier – "

She knew what he was talking about, of course, but remained silent. Waiting for him to continue.

"About, you know, building the house."

There was a slight tightening in her stomach; her mouth went dry. Her hand remained in his, trapped. She said nothing.

"It was just talk, Bones. I mean – I'm happy the way things are right now, you know? This is okay."

She looked at him doubtfully. He flashed her a half-smile, concern evident on his face. She nodded.

"I know – it's all right. I was discussing it with TJ, actually… He just bought a house, because the market's good at the moment. He thought perhaps, if you really want a house, it might be more economical to buy rather than build."

He said nothing, his hand releasing hers. She studied him: the tic in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders as his hands returned to the ten and two positions on the steering wheel.

"It's just – I told him about your financial situation, and he thought perhaps buying would be a more realistic goal. If you were intent on the two of us shouldering an equal financial burden… Which I assume you are, because that typically seems important to you."

He turned on the radio.

"What's wrong?" she asked uncertainly.

"Nothin', Bones," he told her. He wasn't looking at her. "Just listen to the music."

"I don't want to listen to the music – tell me what I said. I know you dislike discussing money, but the reality is that we have very different – "

He turned up the volume. Didn't discuss anything, didn't tell her he was angry or why he was angry or… anything. Simply turned up the volume, to drown her out. Brennan's concern transformed to frustration and, finally, abject rage by the time they reached her apartment. She got out of his truck and slammed the door, seething just as much as he was now.

And that, it seemed, was when things took a turn.

TBC

* * *

_I know - what a mean place to leave things! Don't worry, though, I'm sure it'll all get sorted out in the end. ;-) Be sure to let me know your thoughts, 'cause I LOVE to hear them - theories on the case(s), OOC moments, reactions to the B/B relationship... Random thoughts as they occur. Next week's from Booth's POV, so we'll see what he has to say about all this TJ nonsense. See you then! - Jen_


	3. Chapter Two

Booth didn't want Sweets to ride with them. He wanted to drive Parker back to Rebecca's, talk a little about everything that had happened over the weekend, find out the deal on the junior pep squad that had been following his kid around Jack's freakin' palace… And then, to be honest, he wanted to go back to Bones's place and spend about three hours reminding her just how much she'd missed him, before he passed out for a good twelve hours.

Of course, he couldn't do any of that – instead, he had to sit beside Sweets while Parker looked out the window and snow fell and Bones headed off to a crime scene with Captain Literacy. Alone. In a snowstorm.

He groaned, just a little, and Sweets looked at him; before the psychologist could say anything, Booth shot him a glare and the truck fell silent.

He'd been feeling antsy for a few days now – just tired, he kept telling himself. Or maybe he was coming down with something. Ever since he picked up Parker on Friday – or before that, even. Ever since he'd found out about the stupid assignment Park's damned teacher had given, really. Ever since his kid said, _I want to see where you and Uncle Jared grew up, Dad. It's for school – Mom says it's not far from the camp. It wouldn't be a big deal to go, right? _

Yeah, right.

And ever since he'd set foot in that house… He stopped himself. What the hell was his problem? So Parker had an assignment to see the place where he grew up; so he'd walked through the front door of a stranger's house that still smelled weirdly like his childhood. Big deal. Who cared if he could still tell where the plaster had been patched after his old man put his fist through the wall one night after work; walked into the clean, sweet-smelling sun porch and all he could see was shattered glass and a pool of blood from one of the crappiest in a long line of crappy nights trying to keep his parents from killing each other.

One day, Parker would be able to look back at his own childhood home and see marks on the wall measuring how much he'd grown, the tree house Brent and Booth built together at the end of the summer, the stretch of road where he'd first learned to ride a bike. The kid had had a good life so far, and Booth was proud to have played a part in that. But Booth looked at the place where he grew up, and all he saw were crappy patch jobs over wounds that would never quite heal.

But he was probably just coming down with the flu.

Parker was quiet for most of the ride back to Rebecca's. Sweets sat in the front and played with the radio, while Parker sat in the back and Booth could tell there was something going on in his head – Bones told him they got the same look on their faces, when they were thinking things through. He hadn't seen it until she mentioned it, but now it definitely looked familiar. When he pulled into the driveway, Parker got out and then just stood by the truck for a few seconds – like he had something he wanted to say, but couldn't quite get it out.

"Everything okay, bub?"

He hesitated, looking at the house and then back at Booth. "Yeah, Dad, of course. But I was just wondering…" Another long pause, while the snow continued to fall, dusting the shoulders of his parka and his blonde curls. "Do you think Bones would mind if I called her tomorrow?"

Okay, that was a new one. Booth hesitated.

"She's pretty busy, Parks – " his son's face fell the second the words were out. Booth backpedaled fast. "But I'm sure she could spare some time to talk to you. Is it anything you wanna, you know, run by your old man first?"

Parker shook his head without even giving it a thought. "No – it's kind of private, Dad."

All right, then. Thank God Sweets was still in the truck fucking around with the radio – he'd have a field day with this. He wanted to push him – find out what the kid was so gung ho to talk to Bones about, hoping to God it didn't have anything to do with building a house or, even more importantly, visiting Booth's old neighborhood. He didn't say either of those things, though.

"Okay… Well, you have her cell number, right?"

Parker nodded, his mop of hair flying. There was enough snow in the air to give everything that Norman Rockwell Christmas vibe Booth had always loved, but still not enough to make driving a problem. Rebecca came out and stood on the doorstep in bare feet, her arms crossed over her chest to try and keep in all the warmth that was probably leaking out her naked toes. Sometimes, he just didn't know what the hell she was thinking.

They grabbed all Parker's gear from the back, and trudged up the long walk together. Rebecca gave their son a big hug that the boy grudgingly returned, though Booth could tell by the way he held on that he was glad to see her.

"Hey, Seeley. You guys have fun?" She was smiling – which was good, because he was still never clear on when he might've done something to piss her off. Apparently, not today.

"Hey," he returned, giving her a quick hug after Parker had scooted through the door inside. The hugs were new, and he wasn't sure who'd started them. Probably her, he thought. He nodded toward her feet. "You know it's snowing, right?"

She rolled her eyes. "Gee, I hadn't noticed." Her cheeks were flushed a light pink, part cold and part embarrassment. Back in the day, he remembered loving that look. "You know I love the snow. It's not bad out - I just wanted to feel it."

He actually remembered that, too – remembered how she'd stop everything the second the first snowfall of the year came, watching at the window or, more likely, standing outside until she was shivering and snow-covered and, more than once, he'd had to resort to carrying her back inside because she wouldn't budge otherwise. Thinking about it now, it was a relief to know it wasn't the kind of memory that tortured him anymore – he could look back on it all fondly, feel good about what they had then and what they had now, and get back to his life.

Which was a pretty nice change of pace.

"Parker scraped his knee pretty good on a climb on Saturday." He waited to see if she'd freak out, but she stayed quiet. "I fixed it up, but you'll wanna change the bandage. One of the dads there was a doctor. He said it was no big deal."

"If a skinned knee's the worst he came away with, I can live with that. Do you want to come in? Brent made hot cocoa."

It was just a gesture, not an honest-to-God invite, but he was grateful to get it all the same. He shook his head, just like he figured she'd expected.

"I've actually got a crime scene waiting – I just wanted to get Parker in safe and sound first."

Booth could hear Parks talking to someone – probably Brent – in the next room. Rebecca opened the door and called inside.

"Parker, come give your dad a hug goodbye."

A couple seconds passed, before Parker reappeared at the door. He didn't hug the way he used to – no more pouncing for all he was worth, just about bowling Booth over and then hanging on tight. Now, he had to be talked into hugs. Reminded. Bribed, every once in a while. Rebecca went inside once Parker was back, giving them some space.

"Hey, bub – I had a good time this weekend. Thanks for coming."

Parker smiled, but things still seemed awkward. Booth couldn't tell anymore if it was the kid or just more of that shadow that had been following him the last few days.

"Me too, Dad. It was a lot of fun." He stopped for a second, thinking things over. "You don't think I wrecked anything by telling Bones about the house, do you? I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

Booth shrugged off his words, though he wasn't actually feeling all that cavalier about the whole thing. But that wasn't anything Parker needed to worry about.

"Are you kiddin' me? You know Bones – she just needs a little time to warm up to an idea. Give her a month or two and she'll be drawing up house plans herself."

Parker grinned, seeming more relaxed now that he'd brought it up. "That's good, Dad – I really want us to build a house."

If he was being honest, Booth had to admit he was pretty keen on the idea himself. But he just gave a nod, roughing up Park's hair as he turned to go.

"Give it time, bub."

"'Cause everything happens eventually, right?" Parker said, taking him by surprise.

He smiled a little. Nodded. Gave him a big hug, and then held on longer than he knew his son really wanted. "Yeah, Parks. 'Cause everything happens eventually."

* * *

Sweets had apparently finished whatever the hell it was he was doing with the radio, and had spent the rest of his time in the truck spying on Booth.

"You seem to have a good rapport with Parker's mother," he started, first thing.

Booth just gave him a look, and the psychologist clammed up for a full two, maybe three seconds.

"You're very good with him – there are certain people for whom parenting seems to come more naturally than others. Given the nature of your own childhood and your lack of – "

They'd started driving, but had only gotten about half a block. Checking to make sure no one was behind them first, Booth stopped the truck in the middle of the street. Put it in park, and turned to face Sweets head on.

"Let's get this straight: you're here to evaluate me and Bones, because the Bureau has this stupid policy that we've gotta get around one way or another. That doesn't mean you're my shrink, okay? We're not gonna ride around for the next two weeks while you pick Bones and my brains apart. Got it?"

Sweets hesitated, until Booth started reaching across him to open the passenger's side door to boot his skinny ass out into the snow. At the move, the psychologist held up his hands quickly.

"Okay, fine. Though I think a closer examination of your heightened level of defensiveness might reveal – "

Booth raised his eyebrows, daring the kid to keep going.

He stopped.

They started moving again. Booth changed the channel from the weird synthesized crap they were listening to, to a classic rock station he liked. Turned up the volume.

They drove on.

They got to the scene at about five o'clock, the snow slowed to fat, lazy flakes that clung to the fir trees lining the road, but melted the second they hit the pavement. A deputy he and Bones had worked with before – Carson was his name – was waiting for him. TJ was sitting on the hood of his rental scribbling away in a notebook, looking like some GQ ad for what a fuckin' writer was supposed to look like: goatee, wool coat, torn jeans that probably cost more than some of Booth's suits. Sweets was breathing down his neck, and Bones was nowhere in sight.

Carson was standing next to his squad car talking on the radio. He signed off as soon as Booth pulled up, looking relieved to see him.

"Your partner got here about half an hour ago – she won't let anyone near the body."

It was one of the first things to make him smile all day, though he tried not to look too amused. "Yeah, well – that's what she does, you should be used to it by now. You wanna show me to the scene?"

The deputy nodded, pointing down a dark trail between some branches. There was a second or two when Booth got that uneasy twist in his gut; he cleared his throat.

"You've got somebody out there with her, right?"

"Yeah, of course," Carson said, fast. "After that scene last month, I figured I'd better keep a few guys out there. I don't need you going postal again."

"Hey, I didn't go postal, okay? It's just common sense – you get some bone expert out at a crime scene in the middle of the night, you don't just leave her in the woods because she's a little difficult."

"A little difficult?" Carson laughed out loud. "She told one of my guys he should never have become a cop because his IQ was too low – at least, that's what I _think _she was saying – and she's threatened every one of us if word gets out about the body before ID's confirmed. Like she has to tell us that."

They were headed toward a trail now, Booth noting all the footprints in the thin cover of snow on the grass. Bones might be a pain in the ass, but she at least knew how to handle a crime scene. Which was more than he could say for Carson and his cronies.

"Yeah, well – she's right about that part. If this is Sheriff Lincoln's kid, I don't want him hearing about it on the morning news tomorrow. After waiting four years for this, he deserves a face-to-face. So, what Dr. Brennan said goes double for me: you tell your guys to keep their mouths shut."

Carson tried not to look like he was as pissed as Booth was sure he must be, but it was still pretty clear. They were coming up on Bones, crouched over the body with her hair dusted with snow, focused completely on the remains. Booth made himself hang back for a second, to smooth things over with the deputy.

"Listen, I know you guys have been out here all afternoon – I appreciate you giving us the heads up on this."

Carson nodded, looking a little happier now. "No problem. You know, everybody just gets a little more amped up when it's a kid – and to have it be a cop's kid…"

Booth nodded – he definitely got it. "Yeah, I hear you. But if we've got a body to work with, we stand a hell of a better shot at figuring things out. Especially with Bones on the case."

So, he managed to kiss ass enough to keep the locals from wanting his nuts in a vice or his head on a platter; that was something, at least. He waited a second before he went to Bones, starting with the easy stuff before they got to the case.

"I thought you were gonna call when you got here."

She looked up, brushing her hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. "Was I? Sorry, I forgot."

Which he'd known would happen, no matter how many times they fought about it. It was pointless to say anything more, so he dropped it. Got down to business. Bones gave him what she could tell so far: a girl, eight to ten years old, dead at least a year and probably more. There was no obvious cause of death, which meant they'd need to get the body back to the lab for a tox screen and whatever analysis the squints needed to do to work their magic.

The body was wrapped in a cotton sheet – a nice one, too, with a high thread count. Pale, kind of pinkish color. It didn't look like your typical body dump, either: she'd been placed here carefully, the sheet wrapped around, no effort made to bury her or hide her from anyone. It took a few minutes of really looking before he noticed the dirt clinging to the skeleton, which he pointed out to Bones. She nodded, lowering her voice so no one overheard her.

"She was buried before – for quite some time, I suspect."

"And somebody dug her up?" Booth asked, trying to get his head around that little gem.

Bones nodded. "That's the way it appears."

So, maybe they weren't trying to hide her at all – maybe whoever did this was trying to do the exact opposite. They wanted the girl to be found; wanted people to know who it was.

What the hell?

According to the poster and what Booth remembered of the case, the little girl – Izzie Lincoln – was the daughter of a small-town sheriff in rural Kentucky. She'd gone missing about four years ago. She was nine years old, last seen playing at the school playground with some friends. She walked home alone, the same way she always did…

Except she never made it back.

Booth could remember the sheriff doing press conferences, interviews, anything and everything to get the word out. As far as Booth knew, though, nothing came of any of it. One day there was a happy family with a laughing little girl at the dinner table; the next, she was gone.

It made him sick to his stomach, just thinking about it.

Sweets was standing on the sidelines taking notes, so Booth got up and went over to him while Bones continued to do her thing.

"So, whaddya say, Sweets? You ready to sign off on us yet? See how nice we play together?"

The kid just gave him a look. "You know this process will be more involved than that – and I'm frankly quite curious how everything will unfold, given the addition of Dr. Brennan's friend this week."

Booth swallowed all the things he really wanted to say, and just shrugged. "Look, Sweets, the Pope could be here all week, and it wouldn't change the way we do our jobs – we're professionals, all right? The sooner you and your head shrinker friends at the Bureau can get that straight, the better off we'll all be."

Sweets jotted something down as soon as Booth had finished his little speech, and Booth resisted the urge to say something more. Or take the notebook and jam it somewhere.

Around seven, he convinced Sweets and TJ that life wasn't gonna get anymore exciting before they went home, and they left. Most times, a scene like this wouldn't require much: tell the cops to bag and tag, get Bones and head for home… But he was still worried about word getting out before they had anything solid, so he stuck around and kept talking to the cops, watching how they handled the evidence, making sure everything got done right from start to finish.

By the time Bones was ready to go, Booth had been going straight for a good sixteen hours and wanted nothing more than some hot food, a hotter shower, and a soft bed. Before he could do that, though, he wanted to make sure everything was okay with them – especially after the whole big Building a House reveal that morning. It was hard to tell by that time whether it was him being weird or it was her, but he decided to take a gamble and just put it out there: he'd bring up the house, and see where it got them.

Nowhere good, it turned out.

It was all fine until Bones had to tell him all about how she'd talked to TJ about the house they were gonna build and the money he made (or didn't make). Starting the whole story off with how TJ just bought a place, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And the thing was, it wasn't like Booth didn't have money – he'd been squirreling cash away for a while, even before he and Bones got together, because he knew he didn't want to spend the rest of his life in a crappy apartment in the middle of the city. He didn't have a _lot _of money – probably not as much as friggin' TJ, and definitely not as much as Bones. But he had some.

Rather than getting into the whole thing right there, though, he just shut his mouth. Turned up the radio. Focused on the road. In just a few minutes, Bones had managed to take what he thought was a pretty good dream – long days hammering nails and putting up walls for a house they could share, a future together – and make him feel like a complete loser for wanting it in the first place. And the thing that was so frustrating, the thing that made him completely nuts, was how she didn't have a clue she'd done it. Didn't have any idea why he was pissed. She knew how to press his buttons like no one he'd ever known before – she just didn't _know _she knew.

He'd learned a lot about Bones in the four months since they started dating. He knew a lot about her before, of course, but there are certain things you don't figure out about a woman until you're in the trenches with her, twenty-four-seven. Until you've seen her first thing in the morning and last thing at night, listened to her snore (which she did, no matter how much she refused to believe it) at three am when you knew you had to be up at six and at the top of your game by seven. Until she'd stayed up all night with you while your kid puked his guts out in her guest bathroom, and she never complained, never looked anything but sorry as hell for the kid when he threw up all over her best sheets…

Yeah, he knew her, now.

He knew, for example, that on the ride home from those occasional Sunday dinners with Max, she'd say something so fuckin' thoughtless that he'd want to strangle her. And she'd play innocent – because she was, he knew that. There wasn't a mean bone in her body, no question. But the things she said on those nights went beyond her usual lack of grace… Went beyond anything anyone with a brain in their head would say, without a reason.

The first time, she'd just mentioned in passing how Sully was back in town next weekend, and then followed up with how she still didn't understand how he could believe in monogamy and wouldn't an open relationship be more realistic?

Right.

So, he got pissed and they screamed at each other, and he stopped at a bar and drank too much before he got the connection between dinner with Max and her saying the one thing that would push him right out the door. See? Exactly the right buttons, not a clue why she was pushing them. So, he took a cab back to her apartment and unlocked the door and they fought some more, and he went to bed, and they made up.

The lesson he learned, that night?

Whether she knew it or not, Temperance only said the really shitty things to him when she was scared. It seemed to him that the whole house-money-TJ thing was a beautiful example of her subconscious picking at one of Booth's scabs until she made it bleed.

They got back to her apartment and she slammed the car door and he did the same. Followed her to the front entrance, where she whirled on him.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

He was still pissed – not as much as before, but the hurt was still there, just below that thin surface layer of anger. Still, he knew better than to walk out on her after a fight, so he just stood there and met her eye. Kept his jaw tight and didn't give up any space between them.

"I'm tired – I'm going to bed."

He saw that little flicker of uncertainty in her eyes: she knew his tricks. Knew he wouldn't leave, and so far he had to believe she was glad of it. He dreaded the day that changed – because God knew, the second Temperance Brennan _really _stopped wanting him in her bed, he'd be gone. She'd make sure of it.

"You have an apartment, you know," she said, snotty as hell.

He nodded, just as snotty. "Yeah, I'm aware of that, Bones."

They had the door to the building open, letting in the cold, and they were half-yelling at each other and standing way too close. The security guy was watching them, but he didn't say a word.

"Then why do you insist on coming to _my _apartment when – "

"Because I sleep better here, next to you," he yelled, louder than he'd meant to. Okay, maybe he was madder than he thought. "Even when I'm pissed off, I sleep better in your bed, with pillows that smell like you and your arm on my stomach and you snoring in my ear. Okay, Bones? So, if you don't mind, I'm gonna go upstairs and heat up some of that leftover Thai I'm sure you have in the fridge from when I was gone. Then, I'm gonna take a shower, put on some clean shorts, and go to bed."

She kind of blinked at that, like she had no response. He pushed past her, into the lobby. Took the stairs instead of the elevator, just to work off some of the frustration. She followed behind, talking the whole way.

"So, you're not going to say anything about why you got so angry? Are you jealous of TJ?"

He kept on going.

"Are you angry because I'm not more receptive to building a house with you?"

One more flight, and they'd be at her front door. He pulled out his spare key.

"You're being an uncommunicative ass," she shouted at him. She was really pissed now – even more than before.

He resisted the urge to turn around and try to make things right, and he wasn't even sure why. What would be the big deal? He knew why the night had gone this way, knew why she'd said what she did. This was usually the part where he gave in a little and she gave in a little, and eventually they ended up having sex against a wall somewhere. He just couldn't shake that… thing, that had been tailing him all weekend.

Once he was out of the stairwell, he waited for her at the front door. Even though he had the key, even though half his stuff was at her place and he spent more nights here than his own anymore… Still, he waited. She got there a few seconds after he did, and grabbed the key from his hand. Hard – she scratched him a little when she did it, but she didn't say anything about it, and neither did he. Unlocked the door and went inside, but she didn't shut the door behind her.

He followed her in.

She went straight to the fridge and pulled out a bunch of containers from Wong Foo's. Got two plates, and practically threw them on the table.

"What do you want to drink?" she asked, still half-yelling at him.

He thought about it for a second, then shook his head. "Y'know what – forget it. I'm not hungry anymore. I'm going to bed."

It was an asinine thing to do – he was being an idiot. In his head, he knew that full well… He just couldn't seem to _stop _being an idiot. All he had to do was tell her why he was pissed. What the hell was so hard about that? It wasn't like she'd _meant _to hurt him by talking to TJ about the house. It wasn't like she'd actually _done_ anything at all, and here he was acting like she'd committed some goddamn cardinal sin. He went into the bedroom and stripped down to his underwear. The bed was made – fresh sheets, he could tell. The really soft green ones, his favorite. He heard her put the food away, slamming the refrigerator door, and he felt bad because, even if he wasn't gonna eat, she should have – she'd hardly touched the food at the shower, and they hadn't had a bite since then.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but instead found himself listening to try and figure out what she was doing. The shower started in the next room. He could get up, go in there and tell her he was sorry for being such a dick. Towel her off and carry her in here with her head nestled in that space she always found between his neck and his shoulder, and everything would be fine.

He didn't move.

The shower went off. She came in wearing his t-shirt, her hair still wet – he could see her silhouette in the doorway. Turned off the light, and got into bed.

They lay there in silence.

About two minutes later, the light on her side of the bed came on and he felt Bones's pointy little finger tapping him on the shoulder. He twisted to look at her, but he didn't roll over.

"Yeah, Bones? I'm kind of tired here – and it looks like we've got a big week ahead of us."

She set her jaw, that little stubborn flash sparking in her blue eyes.

"Are you really going to sleep?"

She looked cuter than hell, with her lips pressed tight and the line in her forehead, the annoyance in her eyes. Still, he kept right on being an ass.

"Yeah, Bones, I am. In case you forgot, I've been in the woods for a week and a half. And now we've got a new case in the morning, and Sweets breathing down our necks all week. I could really use a good night's sleep." _Ass, ass, ass, _he thought to himself.

He turned back around, facing the wall. She was quiet for a few seconds, but he knew better than to close his eyes. Instead, he just lay there in silence. Waiting her out. Sure enough, he felt her roll over a minute later. Felt her breath, hot on his bare shoulder.

"Did something happen while you were away?" she asked. Quiet now, uncertain in a way he hated to hear from her.

A couple of seconds passed, and he could have said it all, right then. Could have told her about the stupid visit to Philly and the house with all the ghosts and how, in that second when he walked through the door that used to seem so huge into the living room that never seemed to get enough light, something seemed to shift. And he couldn't shake it, couldn't get the memories out of his head, and all he wanted was to rewind the past three days. Tell Parker they couldn't see his old house because it had burned down or flooded or been hit by an asteroid or something, and go back to being happy as hell with where he was and who he was with and the way his life was going.

He didn't say any of that, though. He just shook his head. "No, Bones."

She blew out an exasperated sigh, flipping over and taking half the covers with her. "Fine."

Another few seconds went by that way, maybe a minute or two, before he couldn't handle it anymore. He rolled over, studying the line of her shoulder and the waves of auburn hair, the curve of her hips. He'd wanted her the second she got into bed – wanted her in the truck, in the stairwell, fighting in the doorway. Seeing her now, though, pushed things way past simple want. He moved closer, settling his hand on her waist.

"Tell me you missed me," he said. Whispered it in her ear, and he felt her shiver.

"I already told you that," she said. Still angry, but there was hurt in there, too – he couldn't stand it when he hurt her.

"Yeah, like you lost a bet. You told Parker you missed him. That Perotta's an idiot, and you got a ton done while I was gone."

He ran his knuckles up the back of her leg, her muscles bunched tight as wire, and she shivered again. Put a hand on her hip and pulled her back against him, hard, so she could feel how much he wanted her. Her breath hitched. He swept her hair away from her neck, bit and sucked and pressed against her until she was gasping.

"I think you're pissed that you missed me," he told her, rough in her ear. "Pissed that I'm thinking about houses and Angela's having a baby and Parker's crazy about you. And I think there's something else – something you're not telling me. But whatever it is, all of it together's scared the hell out of you."

He flipped her around, maybe a little rougher than he should have, but the way she was breathing made him think she didn't have a problem with that right now. He could tell she was caught between jumping him and knocking him sideways. _Good, _he thought. God help him, he'd felt the same way more than once when it came to Temperance Brennan.

They were eyeball to eyeball now, she still fighting mad and turned on anyway, and Booth knew exactly how she felt.

"Tell me you missed me," he said again, his arms around her even though she hadn't given in yet.

"I missed you," she said, with an eye roll and that pissy little edge to her voice that drove him nuts.

He pulled her closer. Kissed behind her ear, sucked on her earlobe just a little too hard and she gasped. Bucked against him.

"Say it like you mean it," he whispered. He ran his hands over her ass and up under her t-shirt, felt her skin warming at his touch.

She draped her leg over his hip. "I missed you." Breathless, her voice low and raspy and so _her _that he just got harder at the sound. She kissed his neck; ran her tongue up just under his ear in that way she did that made him completely lose control.

"Say it again, Bones." He didn't know why it mattered so much – part of it was just about getting her to do what he wanted, maybe, but there was still this part of him that needed to hear it. Needed to know it was true.

She stopped moving. It took him a second to realize, but once he did, he stopped, too. She got very still, and looked him in the eye with her forehead wrinkled like she was trying to see something he didn't really want out there, just yet. Reached up and ran her knuckles along his cheek in this way she did, sometimes, that no one had ever done before. Whenever she did it, she'd get this sweet, soft, completely… naked look on her face – like she was seeing something no one had ever seen before, looking at him. She smiled, but only halfway, her eyes on his like she'd never let go.

"I missed you, Seeley," she said quietly, the wrinkle still in her forehead, still trying to figure him out. She leaned closer and kissed him on the lips.

He wasn't sure when the kiss turned desperate – who pressed in first, whose hands found who… He just knew that nothing felt like it was enough: close enough, hard enough, deep enough. He pushed her shirt up and over her head, kissing every square inch of her he could find. It was cool in the room, so that she got goose bumps the second the air hit her naked skin. He pulled the blanket up over both of them, moving down lower. If he didn't have the words, if he'd never be able to spell things out the way a guy like TJ could, he could at least do this.

Her hand was twisted in his hair while he ran his tongue around her nipple, took her into his mouth and sucked hard enough to make her gasp, her hips coming up off the bed. He reached down with his lips still fastened at her breast and pushed her panties down, over her hips. Ran his knuckles up the inside of her thigh, his teeth grazing the soft, toned plane of her stomach.

Outside, snow was still falling – if he looked up and out the window, he could see it in the light of the streetlamps outside her building. But he didn't look up. Her underwear got twisted around her ankles, and she practically tore them trying to get them untangled. Gasped his name – his first name, the one he only liked when she said it – when his hands were on her ass and his lips were kissing up her thigh. Blowing hot air closer to her, breathing her in, until he was sure he could come just from _this – _being this close, making her crazy this way. He ran his thumb over her clit before pressing his lips to her sex, and she arched off the bed.

And just about took his front teeth with her.

He laughed, just a little. Pushed her hips into the mattress with both hands and ran his tongue over his teeth to see if he tasted blood.

"Easy there, Bones," he said, looking up. He met her eye. She looked flushed and breathless and hot as hell, and not the least bit embarrassed.

"Booth," she said. Whined it, if he was being completely honest.

He grinned, arched an eyebrow. "Is there a problem, Bones?"

She pulled him up by his arms, kissed his bruised lip until he forgot it was bruised, and wrapped her hand around his cock. "Don't stop," she said.

They rolled over until she was on top, and the sheet fell off her shoulders and she was straddling him with the light hitting her pale breasts in just the right way, her hands on his stomach and her eyes closed while she rode him. And he did stop, then – just for a second, not even enough for her to notice, but for that milli-second of time, he held his breath. Tried to memorize everything he loved about that moment: the snow falling outside, the look on her face, the sheets she'd put on the bed especially for him, the smell of her – sex and honeysuckle shampoo and biodegradable goat soap… The way her breasts felt in his hands, the way her muscles held him from the inside out.

He pushed her back a little so he could reach between them; ran his thumb over her clit in an even counter-stroke, and her hands moved from his stomach to his shoulders as she leaned closer. Kissed him, hard, her eyes wide open and his name on her lips as she tightened around him, and he tried to hold off and maybe could have until her hands were in his hair and her lips were at his ear, as she half-whispered and half-gasped, "I want you to come with me." It was all he needed.

She lay in his arms for a long time afterward, silent, but he could tell she was still awake. Still thinking. He ran a hand through her hair – there were about a million and two things he loved about being with Bones, but this was probably in the top ten: the way she just kind of melted into him after they made love, all the tension and doubt and hard edges gone. He kissed the top of her head, still smoothing her hair back.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he said quietly. "We okay?" He couldn't quite keep the uncertainty from his voice, though he definitely tried.

There was a long silence, while she traced patterns on his chest that sent shivers up his spine. He tried to figure out what she was drawing, the way he used to with a high school girlfriend he'd had once: she'd write silly love notes on his shoulders, he'd recite them back. Bones was a lot harder to read, though. Finally, he felt her give in, a second before she actually spoke. He kept holding her, his fingers still twined in her hair.

"I thought I was pregnant," she said. So quiet he almost didn't hear her.

His hand paused in mid-air; he stopped moving. Maybe stopped breathing, for a second there. She pulled back, so she could see his face.

"When?" he finally managed to ask.

"Last week," she told him. She bit her lip. Thought for a second or two, her eyes skating away from his. "I was late – more than a week, which is very unusual for me."

"So, you thought you were, before I left?" He thought back to the days before he'd gone on the training, trying to remember whether she'd been different.

She nodded. "I wasn't certain, of course – it was too early to take a pregnancy test, and it's not as though I had some mystical swirling color experience."

She got his t-shirt from the floor, pulling it back over her head. Sat up and pulled her knees up close to her chest. It was too dark to see her face, but he could tell she was shivering a little. He pushed the blanket over her bare feet, and kept his hand on her ankle while she tried to figure out where to go next.

"So, when did you figure out…?" he finally prompted her.

"When I was in Oregon. I started menstruating while I was on the reservation. My second night there."

Booth nodded. He wanted to pull her back down into the warmth of the bed and his arms, but he didn't move. Gave her the space to tell the story in her own time.

"So… Are you okay, Bones?" He didn't know how to phrase it, what to say. "I mean… How did it feel, thinking… that?"

She looked at him, blue eyes kind of swimming now, while she tried not to cry. "I don't know. It was so strange being there anyway – speaking with the Umatilla elders, telling this man about Jack and Angela, and about you and me… And we stayed up very late one night, discussing the traditions that have been passed down and the rituals involved and…" She stopped, her voice getting thicker the more she tried not to cry. Shivering more, but she didn't seem to notice.

"I've never wanted children, Booth," she told him – like he'd said otherwise, somehow argued the point.

He nodded, his voice soft. "I know that, Bones."

A single tear fell, and she brushed it away roughly. "Everything's changing too quickly. I liked my life…" She rolled her eyes, brushing away more tears. "I was content to have my work. You as my partner, Angela as my friend. Content to write novels and solve crimes and bring criminals to justice."

He finally broke - sat up, because he couldn't stand to see her just sitting there, completely alone. Wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and wiped a tear away with his thumb.

"You're the one that told me once that nothing stays the same, right? Everything changes… You were content, Temperance, but were you happy? I mean…" he swallowed. Thought back to the words he'd said on a night years before, when he'd nearly pushed her right out of his life and into another man's arms.

"We were living kind of narrow before, don't you think?"

She smiled at that, taking a shaky breath. Wiped away more tears. "And now we're living wide?" she asked.

He moved in. Kissed her nose and her eyes and her lips, trying to chase the tears away. "We're tryin', Bones. We're sure as hell trying."

* * *

The next morning, Bones was up early to try and confirm the ID on the remains at the lab as soon as she could. Booth slept a little later, then got up and took a run around the neighborhood before it was time to hit the office.

He spent the whole morning and a good part of the afternoon on desk duty, trying to wade through all the shit he'd left undone before the field training. By the time Bones called at one, he was grateful for the break – though not necessarily for the reason for it. After he hung up with her, he stopped in at Sweets's office and ignored the "In Session" sign on the door to poke his head inside.

"Hey – you wanna watch us in action, I'm headed to the Jeffersonian now. You've got two minutes."

Booth waited outside the office door with one eye on his wrist watch. A soft-looking guy with glasses came out a few seconds later, gave Booth a look like they knew each other, and left. Sweets followed a few seconds later.

"I typically require some advance notice for these types of outings," he said. He didn't look bent out of shape, though – he had that spark to his eye that told Booth he was enjoying this. To Sweets, trailing Bones and him around the lab was prime field work.

They were at the Jeffersonian by one-thirty, and up on the platform by one-thirty-five. The British squint with all the names was the intern of the day. Booth handed Ange half-a-dozen donuts he'd picked up on the way, and stopped just shy of pulling out his gun when the Brit started eyeing them.

"They're for Angela," he kind of growled.

Angela kissed his cheek. "You're the sweetest man I know," she told him. Which he could hardly argue with.

"You know, psychologically speaking, you're continual preoccupation with providing nourishment for Angela's child could be construed as – "

"You know I love you, right, Sweets?" Angela asked, though she didn't really _look _like she loved him all that much at the moment.

"Uh – yeah, of course."

"Good. Then shut up. Sometimes, a donut is just a donut."

Sometimes, he could just kiss that woman.

He and Bones hadn't had a chance to talk since the big revelation in the middle of the night, and Booth was trying to figure out if she was acting any different toward him. TJ and Cam were off talking in the corner, and Booth only relaxed when he and Bones were alone for a second and she leaned in and kissed him, fast, on the lips.

"I'm sorry I missed you this morning," she said. He realized she was watching him the same way he was watching her, making sure they were all right.

"It's all right, I knew you had a lot to get done. Listen, if this is Izzie Lincoln…" he waited for her to confirm, which she did with a nod. "Okay – so, it's Izzie Lincoln. That means I'm gonna have to fly down to Louisville tonight. I want to tell the parents in-person."

She nodded. "I assumed as much." When Cam and TJ joined them, Bones moved away from him just a little and got down to business.

"I'm confident stating the remains belong to Izzie Lincoln," she repeated, as soon as everyone was where they needed to be. The Angelator floated an image of the skull, then reconstructed the face a few seconds later; minus the glasses, it was a dead ringer for the girl on the Missing Persons poster.

"Beyond the reconstruction, I was also able to identify based on the misaligned clavicle – consistent with falling off a horse at an early age, which was reported in her file."

Booth nodded.

"What about cause – you any closer?"

To his surprise, Bones shook her head. "Not as yet – there are no signs of trauma beyond the preexisting conditions I specified. In someone this young, any type of significant sexual trauma would have impacted the skeletal structure."

He winced at the thought, but kept writing notes while she talked. "So there's no sign of that?" he asked.

She shook her head. "At least so far as the skeleton is concerned, she suffered no discernible trauma prior to her death."

"What about being buried?" Booth asked. "Have you figured out anything about that?"

He was looking directly at Hodgins, who was watching Angela eat a donut while she plugged more numbers into the Angelator.

"Dr. Hodgins!" Brennan said, a little louder than necessary. Hodgins looked up quickly.

"Wha – oh, yeah. No – we're running a tox screen to see if any kind of drug might've seeped into the bones. She was definitely buried, and the lack of insect activity would suggest she'd been under for a while."

"A while?" Booth repeated, a little edge to his voice.

Sweets jotted something down, and Booth made a conscious effort not to strangle anyone or shoot anything.

Hodgins caught on. "Well – more than two years, based more on the degree of bone degradation and the particulates found."

Booth nodded, taking down more notes. "And what about location – can you plug in all the, you know, dirt facts you need, and come up with where she was buried?"

Hodgins got that cocky look he had sometimes. "Way ahead of you, man – " except that then, the cocky look faded. "Well, I would be way ahead of you, except the mass spectrometer's been acting up – so I'm not gonna have what I need until tomorrow. But based on a purely surface analysis, I'd say she was buried locally. There's a low percentage of organic material, common to Virginia… A lot of clay in there, too. Until I get the analysis I won't know for sure, but I'd say a suburb in either Virginia or Maryland."

"A suburb?" He looked up in surprise. "How do you know that?"

More cocky. Booth had come to like Jack in general, but sometimes he really thought the squint could use a good old fashioned ass-kicking.

"Simple deduction, really. She was buried close to the surface – based on the types of particulates and the remnants of insects that fed and lived and died on the bones. But, no sign of any larger predators gaining access to the remains."

"Which would suggest an urban or suburban area, where wildlife wouldn't be digging around," Booth finished for him. He thought about it for a second, then gave a reluctant nod of approval. "Not bad."

Once they were finished with the briefing, he called and made reservations for the soonest flight he could get to Louisville – which just happened to leave in an hour. He left Sweets in the squints' capable hands, and raced for the airport.

* * *

Booth's flight got into Louisville at just after five, and he was on the road in a four-wheel drive rental headed south on I-65 not long after. He tried programming the sheriff's home address into the GPS, and the thing might as well have shrugged and given him a big fat raspberry. Apparently, Sheriff Lincoln lived off the grid. Instead, he put in the address for the police station, and figured he'd get directions the rest of the way once he got there. He was still in his suit, though by now he was looking pretty rumpled and was feeling tired as hell after his late night with Bones.

Still, he didn't change into the jeans and t-shirt in his bag before he set out – the family deserved more respect than an exhausted Fed showing up on their doorstep like he was headed for a weekend at the ballpark. He did loosen his tie a little, though, and then took in the countryside while he drove.

Walcott, Kentucky, was an hour and a half due south of Louisville. An hour of that, Booth spent on the highway passing billboards that said things like "Hell is Real!" and "Do You Know When He'll Call?" in big, black letters. Bones would either be horrified or she'd think it was funny, but Booth just took it in stride. He'd served with plenty of southern boys while he was in the Gulf – they were good men, put their life on the line and saved his ass more than once. If they were a little more hardcore with their Bible than he was with his, it didn't make much difference to him: faith was faith. Sometimes, whatever got you through the night was enough.

He got off the highway and passed a strip mall with a Super Walmart, Dollar Store, and a giant Christian bookstore, and kept driving until he'd left all that behind and was headed into Sheriff Lincoln's hometown.

Walcott was a little town of about 2200 people, with the courthouse set right in the center of the town square. It was almost seven by the time he parked and got out, taking in the Christmas lights, the storefronts with boarded windows, the Price Reduced! and Going Out of Business signs. A couple of young guys – too skinny to be healthy and, based on the way their bodies seemed to hum with energy even while they were standing still, probably meth heads – stood on the corner smoking. They watched him while he walked up the courthouse steps, but they didn't say anything.

The door to the courthouse was locked, which only made sense given the time of day. He looked around, trying to figure out where the police station might be. He'd grabbed a value meal at Burger King a couple hours before, but now he was hungry again, and tired. Small-town Kentucky was losing its charm fast.

"Hey!" he yelled to the meth heads by the streetlamp, walking toward them.

One of the guys looked like he was about to run – he was smaller than the other one, eyes wide, and was probably tweaking right there. The taller one was older – more dangerous, Booth guessed, by the way he met his eye dead on. He felt for his gun, just in case, and stayed smooth and easy as he approached.

"You guys know where the police station is?"

"You need to report a crime?" the taller one asked. Drawled it, long and slow. Took another drag off his cigarette. The street was colder than Booth thought it would be.

"I'm looking for Sheriff Lincoln."

The smaller one blinked a couple times, fast. His left hand was scratching his left thigh, like he was trying to dig straight through the denim.

"You here about Izzie?"

Booth studied him, keeping his face impassive – though in his head, he was thinking of all the ways he was gonna make Carson's life a living hell when he got back to DC. He'd told him to stay quiet, and now even the tweakers knew what was up.

"Why do you ask that?"

"You got a government look about you," the smaller one said, still scratching. "Government got no reason to look for the sheriff, 'less it's about Izzie."

"'Specially not at seven o'clock on a cold Monday night," the other one added.

Booth nodded, weighing his options. The smaller of the two was young – maybe eighteen, maybe less.

"Can you tell me where to find the sheriff?"

The tall one smiled, a greasy smile that made Booth set himself back, just a little.

"Anything you can do for us, if we take the time?"

"Cut the shit, Jay," the smaller one said – hard, and Booth got the feeling by the way his buddy looked at him that he'd pay for taking a stand, once Booth was out of sight.

Still, the little one nodded to a road to the left of the courthouse. "Go about five, ten miles down there. There's a church on the right – a little white one, set back from the road, just before a turnoff. Little Big Town Road – take that right. From there, just follow the dogs. They'll bring you straight to the sheriff."

Booth hesitated. The kid definitely wasn't the most reliable person he'd ever turned to for directions, but it didn't look like he had a hell of a lot of options. He thanked them and started to get back in the truck, then stopped. Turned to ask if they knew where he could maybe grab a bite to eat, but they were already across the street and headed up the hill out of town. He shrugged, and set back out.

Little Big Town Road wasn't paved, but it wasn't in bad shape, all things considered. It was a narrow stretch of road with forest on either side and moonlight overhead, and it was creepy as hell. Booth slowed down when the road veered to the right, looking in on a beat-up old barn with Christmas lights around it, some kind of animals – cows, he thought, though it was too dark to tell for sure – looking out at him from open stalls.

A few yards later, he saw the first dogs. They were in a kennel set back from the road, eyes glowing back at him in the darkness. Those dogs started barking, and it seemed like the whole forest was howling after that. There was another kennel farther down, then a couple of dogs chained to trees beyond that.

Where the hell was he? The thought crossed his mind that maybe this wasn't the sheriff's place at all – maybe the tweakers in the town square just sent him into some meth den, just to have a little fun playing Kick the Shit Out of the Fed.

He glanced over his shoulder, looking for a place to turn around. The road was too narrow, though – he'd either have to back up all the way out to the main road, or keep going 'til he reached a wider spot.

He kept going.

There were more kennels. His heart rate kicked up a notch when he heard someone yelling, off to the left, running through a big, open pasture. There was an answering yell from the other side of the road. Booth stopped the truck. Reached for his gun. The dogs were still barking, but the road had opened up a little, and he could see a house up ahead lit like Times Square, a giant Christmas tree in the front yard.

Which had to be a good sign, right?

He put the truck back in gear, and headed for the light. Once he reached the house, he stopped and sat for a second, getting himself together. He figured, worst case scenario, he was about to step into some crazed, Christmas-loving drug den; best case scenario, he was about to tell a man his daughter was never coming home. After a second's thought, he decided maybe he'd prefer the drug den.

He stepped into the cold Kentucky night, and heard more yelling off in the distance. There was a nativity scene with a big, glowing plastic Mary and Joseph, and a bunch of big, glowing plastic farm animals beside them. The front porch to the old farmhouse was draped in white Christmas lights, an animatronic Santa going down a chimney up on the roof. He was so caught up in all the holiday stuff, it wasn't until the front door to the house was opening that Booth realized one of the plastic animals wasn't glowing.

And wasn't plastic.

And seemed to be headed his way.

"Lily!" the woman at the front door shouted.

A tiny goat with long fur and longer… antlers? Did goats have antlers, Booth wondered? Or horns? Either way, a tiny long-haired goat with a beard and horns or antlers or whatever and dark, beady eyes turned slow and lazy over her shoulder to look at the woman, before she turned back to Booth.

The goat took a step toward Booth at the same time the woman took a step toward the goat and Booth took a step backward, toward the car. He didn't reach for his gun, but he sure as hell wanted to.

"You from the FBI?" the woman asked.

What, was he wearing a sign? He nodded, keeping an eye on the goat that was ambling closer.

"Yeah – um, is this your goat?"

"That's Lily – she let the whole damned herd out tonight, the stinker. Bill and the boys are up in the field trying to get everybody rounded up before the coyotes get wind of an easy meal up on the ridge."

So, that would explain the yelling up in the pasture.

"Listen, sugar," the woman said to him. She had a little bit of a drawl, a little bit of a twang. She was blonde and short and curvy, solid in a feminine, country kind of way. All of which Booth took in while edging closer to the car, watching the goat all the while.

"Honey," the woman said a little louder, when he didn't look up. "The worst she's gonna do is pee on your foot, just take it easy. Once she comes up to you, you mind just taking hold of her collar? She's still P.O.'d at me 'cause we wethered her boyfriend yesterday."

Booth had no idea what that meant, but he suspected it wasn't real good news for the boyfriend, either. A second later, the goat came over and snuffled at his pant leg. He leaned down awkwardly, steering clear of the antlers.

"Nice goat," he said quietly. Her fur was rough, and when he pet her head she butted against him like a cat. Booth reached lower, holding his breath, until his hand hit the collar. He held on.

"I've got her," he said. He sounded breathless, and way too triumphant for just capturing a miniature goat that wasn't even trying to get away. The woman hurried down the steps, crouched down, and pulled the goat into her arms like she was a sack of flour.

"You're more trouble than your worth, Miss Lily," she said, just loud enough for Booth to hear, before she turned her attention to the FBI agent in her front yard. The goat squirmed and made weird goat noises, then rested its head on the woman's shoulder and apparently went to sleep.

"Are you Mrs. Lincoln?" Booth asked, trying to inject some authority into his tone.

"I'm Maylene – Mary Todd was Mrs. Lincoln," she said. It took a second for Booth to get it. "One of the boys by the courthouse called, told me you was on your way. Listen, hon, you got anything a little more comfortable than that get up?" she asked, nodding toward his suit.

His eyebrows went up. He was still trying to figure out how to get back in control, how to suddenly seem like someone they could talk to about their daughter… But he was hungry and it was dark and he was pretty sure the damned goat had peed on his shoes. So, he just nodded.

"Uh – yeah, I have jeans in with my gear."

"Good," the woman said. "Why don't you go on in and get freshened up, then come on down and we'll do a little goat herding." She turned to walk away, then stopped before he could call after her. "Once everybody's rounded up, we'll come in and have some dinner. And you can tell us about Isabella."

Her voice broke when she said the little girl's name, but otherwise she stayed strong. Booth just stood there for a few seconds with his mouth hanging open, before he snapped it shut and grabbed his gear from the back. Went inside and roamed around until he found a bathroom, and then met the woman back on the front porch.

By the end of the night, Booth had come to appreciate all his years of training as a sniper in a way he never had before. Because, as it turned out, being a highly trained sniper came in handy when you were stalking renegade livestock. By the time the last goat was locked in for the night, it was eleven o'clock. Booth was tired and he smelled like sweat and goat funk, but the whole thing had been weirdly energizing.

He followed Maylene and Sheriff Lincoln inside the house, trailed by their three sons. The sheriff set the table while the boys got washed up and Maylene dished up a thick beef stew from a crock pot on the counter.

There were more dogs inside - Maylene did collie rescue, she told him. Three collies – two of them big, gorgeous Lassie-looking dogs and the third one smaller, rounder, and almost bald from mange – lay in a semi-circle at Booth's feet while he sat at the dining room table. He bowed his head while the family said grace, then took in the old-fashioned, faded floral wallpaper and the antique China hutch and the photos of grandparents and parents and babies that lined the walls.

There were pictures of Izzie everywhere he turned.

Once they'd said the blessing, all eyes were on him. It wasn't the way the news was supposed to be delivered, but he didn't have much choice.

"You found Izzie," the sheriff said. It wasn't a question. The boys were watching Booth. The youngest was maybe Parker's age, the oldest probably fifteen or sixteen. They were all blonde like their mother, tall and lean like their father.

Booth nodded, straightening in his chair. "I'm sorry, sir. She was found on a trail in a Virginia state park."

"When's she coming home?" the youngest asked. Excited. Booth swallowed.

"She's not coming home, Ryan, she's dead," the oldest told him. Not mean, but matter-of-fact.

"Billy," Maylene warned.

The sheriff nodded up the stairs. "Why don't you boys finish up and go on to bed. You got school in the morning. Mama'll be up to say goodnight shortly."

Booth didn't say anything else until the boys were done and safely upstairs. Once they were, the sheriff studied him.

"Any leads on who got her?" he asked.

Booth hesitated. "Not yet. But she's – I work with a team of forensic scientists at the Jeffersonian Institute. They're the best in the business, sir."

The sheriff nodded. He had a rugged build – tall and broad, with a nose a little too sharp for his face, lips a little too thick. Maybe forty-five years old, maybe younger. Maybe older. Not a good looking guy, necessarily, but sturdy and honest looking.

"You know cause of death?" he asked.

For the first time, Maylene looked shaken. Booth watched her for a second, waiting for her to break.

She didn't.

"Not yet. They're running a tox screen, to see if it might have been drugs of some kind."

"How long since she died?" the sheriff asked.

The questions were the rights ones to ask, Booth knew, if you were in law enforcement. But somehow they sounded all wrong coming from the father of the victim.

"It's hard to pinpoint," Booth told them. "Years, though."

"Years," the sheriff repeated softly. He shook his head, ran a hand over his jaw. He was wearing jeans and an old Army sweatshirt with grass stains on it – Booth had a similar one at home. He looked tired.

Silence fell over the table, until Maylene finally cleared her throat.

"Can you tell – do you know if she suffered?" she asked. Tears in her eyes, now.

Booth shook his head. "There's no sign of injury of any kind. It doesn't look like she would have had any pain."

The sheriff got up from the table suddenly, pushing his chair back and making all three dogs scatter. "I'm going to bed. You're staying the night," he said to Booth. Again, it wasn't a question.

"Uh – well, I planned – "

Maylene stood at the same time. "Nearest hotel's an hour away, hon, and you're dead on your feet. Our oldest boy's in school up in Chicago – you'll stay in his room."

Booth didn't have the heart to argue. He followed Maylene up a narrow staircase lined with photos of a little girl with glasses and a gap-toothed smile, all the way to a low-ceilinged bedroom on the third floor with pennants and baseball posters on the wall. He reached for his cell phone as soon as he was through the door, but Maylene just smiled at him.

"Reception's no good out here – you'll have to use the landline," she nodded toward a football phone by the bed. "We got unlimited long distance once Malcolm went to school out of state. Talk as long as you want."

Booth nodded gratefully. He was standing in the doorway, and Maylene studied him for a second before she said anything.

"You got children, Seeley?" she asked.

He nodded, something heavy in his heart. "One – a boy. Parker. He's eight."

She smiled a little, her eyes shining. "That's a good age. You keep him close. You never think of it, 'til it's done – you imagine how horrible it'd be, you feel sorry as hell for others who've lost a child, but you don't really believe it happens until it's your baby's face staring back at you on the TV."

She shook her head, wiping away her tears. "Keep him close," she said again. Then, she straightened, nodding toward the closet. All business again.

"There's an extra blanket in the closet there – it gets chilly up here at night. Malcolm was home over Thanksgiving, so everything's still pretty clean, not too musty. Dosha – she's the mangy collie, but don't worry, it's not contagious anymore – likes to sleep up here. She's had a rough go of it and she's expecting pups in a couple weeks, so we try and let her do as she pleases."

She stopped, studied him again. Eyes squinted, a little smile on her face. "You like dogs, Seeley?"

Like he'd dare say otherwise. He smiled back at her and answered truthfully. "Yes, ma'am. I do."

She nodded approvingly. "Good. Then you and Dosha can keep each other company. Now, call that pretty girlfriend I'm sure is waitin' on you, and get some sleep. We'll see you in the morning."

Booth nodded. Waited until he heard her footsteps headed down the stairs, then changed into sweats and a clean t-shirt and picked up the football phone. Before he could dial, Dosha pushed the door open and waddled in. Climbed up on the bed without an invite, and looked a little put out that she'd have to share.

Bones answered her phone on the second ring, her voice weirdly crisp and professional.

"Dr. Temperance Brennan."

He grinned. Even wiped out and smelling like goat, that voice could still get to him. He leaned back in bed and pulled the covers up to his waist.

"Hey, baby."

"Booth?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Bones – Booth. You got anybody else calling you baby in the middle of the night?"

To which she most definitely rolled her own baby blues. "Of course not, but the caller ID – "

"Yeah, landline. Reception's not great out in the boondocks, Bones. How was your day?"

"I just saw you at two, Booth. You know how my day was – you were here for a good portion of it."

He sighed. Dosha the mangy collie rolled over and tried to make herself comfortable, while he looked for a patch of fur to pet. He settled for the top of her head and her soft, narrow muzzle, and she reached out and lapped at his hand lazily.

"Yeah, Bones – I know, it's just something you say. So… How was it? Or, how was your night?"

"Fine." She hesitated a second too long, and he got a little uneasy. "I discussed TJ's case with him over dinner. When you get back, I think it might be worth looking into the investigation."

He made a face. "Dinner where?" God, had he really asked that?

"Café Nietsche."

Booth almost groaned out loud. "You went into Café Nietsche? Bones, that place is full of – "

"It's a nice café, with excellent vegetarian fare. One of TJ's friends was doing a reading there."

Booth chewed on his lip for a second. _Get over it, Seeley. _Scratched his neck. She was with him, right? She had plenty of opportunities to date guys like TJ before, and she'd turned them all down flat. He took a breath, and decided to get over himself already. Or at least try like hell.

"I'll take a look at his case when I get back, Bones. Listen, you're not gonna believe my night…"

And so he told her. He told her about catching the goats and chasing the llamas, about the little Kentucky town and the meth heads and the rescued collies guarding the place, the pictures of Izzie and the three brothers… He talked until he could barely keep his eyes open, and then only stopped when she laughed at him, low and sweet.

"What's so funny, Bones?"

A little pause on the line. "I don't know – nothing, really. Except…" A longer pause, this time. He waited her out. "I really do miss you, when you're not here. Even…" She stopped again. He felt like he was willing the little engine that could: _You can say it, Bones. _"Even when it's illogical. Even when it's only a night. I do miss you."

He swallowed past a lump in his throat, ignored a little wash of moisture in his eyes. Smiled. "Yeah, Bones. I know what you mean."

* * *

that Dosha took up more space, snored louder, and smelled a hell of a lot worse than Bones had ever dreamed of. Still, Booth took one look at the raw, pink skin barely hidden by a layer of thinned out fur, the swollen belly, and the deep pink scar around her neck where he imagined a collar had been embedded until not too long ago, and he didn't really have the heart to complain. He claimed a corner of the bed for himself, and woke the next morning with the sun high in the sky and the collie's head resting on his stomach.

It took him a few seconds to re-orient himself once he was up, but he snapped back to life once he'd checked his watch and realized it was almost eight-thirty.

He jumped out of bed, grabbed his things, and hurried down the stairs with Dosha on his heels. Maylene was doing the dishes when he appeared in the doorway.

"Coffee's made, eggs just need to be nuked if you want some. You sleep okay?"

He ran a hand through his hair, and stopped when he felt a piece of straw in it. He pulled it out and stared, wondering if he'd had the conversation with the family about their lost daughter while he had hay in his hair.

"Uh – yeah, I did. Thank you. Listen, I wanted to talk to your husband about – "

She nodded, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she turned to face him. "He's at the station, said you can meet up with him there. What time's your flight back?"

He sat down. Got his breath, and gratefully accepted the cup of coffee she set in front of him. "Not 'til six."

"Well, then – relax. Eat some breakfast, get cleaned up. The world'll wait twenty minutes, hon."

Once he was fed and showered and dressed, he met Maylene on the front porch. It was a gorgeous day, cool and crisp, with a blue sky overhead and clean air in every direction. Dosha'd been following him since he got up – sitting at his feet waiting for scraps at breakfast, lying outside the bathroom door while he showered, resting her muzzle against his hand while he touched base with the squints.

Outside, Maylene smiled at him, nodding toward the collie. The dog was too pregnant to lay down the normal way, so she had to stay on her side, panting like crazy. She had one paw resting on Booth's shoe, like she was keeping tabs on him.

"She's taken a shine to you."

He shrugged. "Or my shoes. She's a nice dog." He hesitated, not sure if he should keep going. Probably not. He did anyway. "What'll happen to her, once she – uh, you know, has the puppies?"

Maylene crouched down and pet the dog's head. "She's actually got a good home waiting for her – real nice place. You wouldn't know it to see her now, but Dosh here has a pretty impressive pedigree. Backyard breeders did a number on her, but she's got some good years left. Once this litter's out and weaned, she'll get spayed and go into retirement on a farm near Memphis."

He crouched down beside Maylene and pet the dog's patchy, swollen belly. Tried not to look disappointed, and stay casual.

"And uh… What about the pups? Do they already have homes?"

Maylene raised an eyebrow. "You in the market?"

He thought about it for a second. He wasn't, really – yeah, Bones had mentioned it while she was delirious on the mountain that night, and they'd had exactly one phone conversation about it since then. Still, she kept the plastic German shepherd he got her right there by the bed…

He'd always wanted a dog. And God, Parker'd go nuts.

"Maybe," he finally said.

She nodded. Straightened up, and thought about it for a while. "Well, you give it some thought. We don't know about the daddy, but Dosha's a good mama who raises good pups, so she'll make sure they've got manners before she lets 'em go. They'll be nice and socialized, probably smart as pudgy little whips. If you're looking for a pup, this is a good way to get one."

Booth ran a hand over the patches of fluff on the dog's mostly naked chest, and she lay her paw on his arm. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help smiling.

Maybe.

* * *

Booth turned off Little Big Town Road and headed back into town at ten that morning. When he reached the courthouse, the same two meth heads were standing on the same streetcorner. In the light, he could see the charm of the tiny town a little better: the clear blue sky, tall oak trees, the old brick buildings and the clean, nice little houses with clean, nice little yards. He parked in front of the courthouse again, and the meth heads walked up to him this time.

"You found Sheriff Lincoln, I guess," the smaller one said.

Booth nodded. "Yeah, thanks for the help." He hesitated. "Listen – either of you guys know a good place to eat around here?"

The meth heads were Jay – the tall one – and Harry – the small one. Booth bought them breakfast at a roadside diner that smelled like homemade bread and fried chicken. They both ordered the biggest stacks of pancakes on the menu, and barely looked up while they ate. About halfway through the meal, Booth brought up Izzie Lincoln.

"Did you guys know her?" he asked.

Harry looked up. "Know _of _her, more like," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin he'd balled up and smoothed out no less than a dozen times now. His leg was bouncing so hard under the table, Booth thought he might knock something over.

"I was in school with Malcolm – one of the Lincoln boys," Harry continued, "when it happened."

"When she was taken, you mean," Booth said. He took a sip of coffee, keeping things casual.

Jay rolled his eyes. "Yeah, when she got taken. The whole town got turned upside down looking for her."

"There weren't so much as a trace, though," Harry picked up. He had scabs on the back of his hand that he started picking at while they talked.

"She was a cute little thing – sharp, too. Smartest kid in her class. I used to go over to the Lincoln's place sometimes when my mama worked late. Izzie'd always be out with the goats. She did 4-H, you know. Won all kinds of ribbons for it."

Booth stored the information away, trying to remember if he'd seen that in the file. "Did she do anything else – leave the town, have contact with outsiders?"

"All the Lincoln's done Bible camp out at Green River," Jay volunteered. "Folks come from all over the country for that."

Another tidbit to store away for later. He was about to ask something else when his cell rang, and he frowned when the ID came up. Deputy Director Werner.

"Special Agent Booth," he answered.

"Booth – you still in Texas?" Werner demanded, sounding impatient as hell.

"Uh – Kentucky, sir. I'll be back in DC this evening – "

"Make it sooner – there's a flight at two. I want you on it. We got another dead kid, same MO."

Booth excused himself and found a quiet corner. "Same MO meaning…?"

"Cop's kid, disappeared without a trace. This one up in Vermont, two years ago. Found over at Staunton River Park, wrapped in a sheet with a Missing Persons poster around his wrist. Dr. Brennan's headed out to the scene now."

Booth nodded, already digging for his wallet while he headed back to the table.

"I'm on my way, sir."

He gave Jay and Harry a lift back into town, stopped and said a quick goodbye to Sheriff Lincoln with the promise that he'd be in touch with any news, and hit the road.

Again.

TBC


	4. Chapter Three

In Oregon, Wallace Morning Owl asked Brennan who she was – despite the fact that she'd known him for six years. It was her second evening on the reservation, and they were up late talking in his trailer over beer and burgers. Booth, she believed, would like Wallace a great deal.

Regarding the man's question about who she was, Brennan replied:

"Dr. Temperance Brennan," with a slight roll of her eyes.

Wallace had the same look on his face that she remembered her mother getting when she'd gotten an answer wrong as a child: patiently waiting for her to get the correct response, and mildly amused at the one she'd provided.

"I didn't ask your _name_, see?" Wallace explained patiently. "I asked, 'Who are you?' If you ask me that question, I'll tell you: 'I'm Wallace Morning Owl, grandson of Suzie Jean Aleana, who couldn't walk 'cause a horse rolled onto her cradleboard crossing the Columbia when she was a baby.' I would say, 'Great grand-nephew of Victor Jean, who could have been a great scholar in the white man's world, but who stayed with his people and helped us remember our language and pass laws to protect our past."

He took another long drink of beer, then set the bottle down on the carpeted floor between his feet. He moved to the edge of the worn armchair, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes on her. Wallace's smile was one of the better smiles she'd encountered in her life: wide and open, relaxed and singularly empathetic. He gave her one of these smiles before he continued.

"My people believe that we're nobody without family, because we belong to nobody. To really _be _somebody, you've gotta _belong_ to somebody, see?" He looked at her for a moment. "Now - who are _you_, Dr. Brennan?"

Wallace had coal black hair to his shoulders and the dark skin and eyes common to his people. They'd first met when Brennan identified his sister after the young woman's murder in a hotel room in Las Vegas. In similar circumstances, most individuals would choose to forget everyone associated with such an event, but Wallace continued to send her a card on each anniversary of his sister's death.

She liked Wallace Morning Owl.

She just didn't like his questions.

Brennan shifted uncomfortably. The walls of Wallace's trailer were decorated with photographs both new and very, very old, as well as countless examples of the Native American's formidable skill as a craftsman. He was older than Brennan by ten years, shorter by six inches, and heavier by at least eighty pounds.

And he wanted to know who she was.

"I don't know my family," she finally said, her eyes sliding from his. She felt overwhelmed and disappointing, as though this lack of information were somehow letting the man down.

"You're an orphan? You don't have no friends to drink a beer with, no boyfriend who cleans your plates with you after a long day?" he asked, even though Brennan knew he was aware this was not the case.

With someone else, she would be impatient – push past this and get to the point. But this wasn't the western world in which she typically resided; she accepted that. Brennan had immersed herself in enough indigenous cultures to know that the same rules did not apply. She was asking a favor of this man; the least she could do was respect his ways.

And answer his questions.

"My father's name is Max." She hesitated. "He robbed banks, and taught high school science. Protected my brother and me by killing men and immolating them on rooftops."

Wallace laughed softly, not appearing at all unnerved by her revelation. "I've always said, I think you would make a very good Umatilla. Who else is your family?" He paused. "Who will this child belong to?"

The question stopped her, though she of course knew that Wallace was referring to Angela's child. But, still… It stopped her. Primarily, because Brennan was late. Ten days late, in point of fact, to begin menstruating. The first week or so, she'd been consumed with anxiety and remonstrations, but recently she felt that something else was taking root. She was here for a gift for Angela's baby, but walking through the reservation – speaking with Wallace, watching children play by the river while the Oregon rain fell and no one seemed at all concerned about that rain, she found herself thinking incessantly of an image that she kept pushing far to the back of her mind.

An image she'd been pushing back for quite some time, if she were being honest. In the image, she and Booth were walking together at the park or the zoo or the beach – which in and of itself was hardly extraordinary. The problem, however, was that in almost every instance when she thought of that image lately, Booth was carrying a brown-eyed baby girl on his shoulders… _Their _brown-eyed baby girl. Brennan seemed to be having a great deal of trouble focusing on much of anything beyond that image.

Who was she?

"My partner used to be an Army sniper. He has brown eyes and a propensity for unconventional ties and striped socks." She found herself smiling, revealing such details.

Wallace leaned back in his seat. He looked equally pleased with her revelation. "And you two will be this child's godparents?"

She nodded, feeling better now that she understood what he was asking.

It was just past eleven, still talking to Wallace about Booth and Angela and Jack and the baby, when Brennan felt the first hint of cramping. Wallace was telling her about the first cradleboard he'd ever made, as an apprentice when he was fourteen. She'd been so consumed with his story that it hadn't even dawned on her, really, that she was uncomfortable – until suddenly she realized what it was, that telltale twist in her lower intestine, the cramping and fatigue…

And for one ridiculous moment, she felt a surge of emotion so strong she thought she might actually cry. She excused herself as politely as she could, knowing exactly what she would find when she went to the restroom.

She told herself that nothing had changed. She would go back to DC, and Booth would return from his training. Things would be just the way they had been. She _liked _the way things had been.

So, crying on the toilet in a stranger's bathroom three-thousand miles from home, why did she feel as though she'd just lost something?

She thought once more of the brown-eyed baby girl on Booth's broad shoulders, and quickly brushed away her tears.

Nothing had changed.

That night in Booth's arms, after the ridiculous fight that she _still _didn't entirely understand, Brennan wanted to tell him what it had been like. She wanted him to know about the reservation, about Wallace Morning Owl and his crippled grandmother, about his vision quest and the cradleboard and, yes, even the brown-eyed little girl that she kept imagining.

She got it all wrong, though. When she told him that she'd never wanted children, she realized suddenly that she meant that she'd never wanted children _before. _That had changed. Everything had changed, and she had been denying it for too long. _That _was what she wanted to tell Booth. Except she didn't tell him that at all.

It wasn't entirely her fault, of course. Booth may think that she was completely clueless about the emotional lives of those around her, but Brennan knew enough to recognize when he wasn't telling her something. One of the things she used to love about their relationship was the fact that things she was certain Booth would never say to anyone else, he inexplicably chose to say to her. It never made any sense to her why a man like Booth would choose her, Temperance Brennan – who had never been anything but a disaster at empathy – as his closest confidante.

It seemed to her that those confidences had been few and far between since they began dating, however. It was supposed to be the other way around, of course: the closer they became, the more they were supposed to share. The only thing Brennan could think of was that, now that he knew her more intimately, Booth had found her somewhat… lacking, when it came to discussing anything of any real, emotional significance. It was hardly surprising, but she couldn't deny that it hurt when she would ask if something was wrong and he would reply with a patently false smile, that everything was fine.

They were fine.

He wasn't thinking about anything.

He didn't care that his brother was drinking again. That his Army buddy had been a psychotic killer bent on destroying him. That she'd nearly died on a mountaintop.

Everything was great.

It wasn't true, and she knew it.

He'd gotten a hint of desperation in his tone when they were in bed, insisting that she'd missed him – when of course she had, it seemed absurd to keep repeating such an obvious sentiment. But he had that look, that uncertainty in eyes that were usually so… solid.

"Tell me you missed me," he said again, roughly, pressed against her with his arms holding her close and his eyes on hers.

She stopped moving. Got it, suddenly; Brennan might be a little slow about such things, but she eventually figured them out. She ran a hand over his jaw, struck by the fact that _this_ – the feel of his stubble under her hand, his smell and his strength and his arrogance, his vulnerability and his kindness and, yes, even his belt buckle – was precisely why she loved him.

"I missed you, Seeley," she told him. And she meant it.

The next morning, it wasn't yet light outside when Brennan awoke. Though she wanted to get to the remains as early as possible, she actually lay in bed longer than she should have, strictly speaking, because she was in Booth's arms. And she _liked _being in Booth's arms. He was comforting without being stifling, warm enough to keep her from getting chilled but not so warm that she got overheated. She'd never cared for so-called cuddling before Booth, but lately she found it the most effective way for her to get a good night's sleep.

And when he woke – hard and pressing himself into her thigh or her belly or her back, his lips at her neck – she found it one of the very best ways to begin a day.

She really did want to get to the office, though, and so after a few minutes of languishing in his arms while he continued to sleep, she disentangled herself and started to get up. She kissed him when he woke and protested, wrapping his arms around her body to try and keep her where she was.

"C'mon, Bones – it's still dark out. Can't you at least wait 'til sunrise?" he mumbled, his body still heavy with sleep. She waited a moment to see if he'd wake fully, but a moment later he was snoring again.

She kissed him briefly on the lips, ran her hand over his biceps, traced the line of his clavicle and on down his stomach. Noted that he was already semi-erect; if she wanted to press the matter, she could certainly wake him. She'd found that Booth was always more than happy to begin the day with sex.

But, he'd had a long week and would invariably have a trying day to come – he could use the rest. Reluctantly, she kissed him once more, and this time didn't pause when he mumbled something in his sleep. She got up, and got ready for work.

It was just after five-thirty when she arrived at the Jeffersonian, the sky still dark and the winter air colder than was typical for December in DC. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. Not surprisingly, she was the first one in the lab. She turned on the lights, stopping in her office only long enough to drop her things before heading for the platform.

The body that had been discovered the day before had been boxed and was waiting for her on an exam table, the evidence seals still in place and an inventory checklist waiting on a clipboard beside the bones. Brennan took a breath, stretched her back briefly, and set to work.

Once everything had been opened, she carefully laid the bones out on the table in their appropriate positions. They were long since disarticulated – with no joints to hold them in place, the remains had been merely a rough assemblage of a skeleton, even at the crime scene. Someone had taken great care to arrange them in such an exact fashion: this long after death, it was notoriously difficult to keep a complete skeleton intact. Bones were scattered by predators or the elements, fragments chipped and degraded…

That wasn't the case here, however. She counted twenty-three of twenty-seven bones in the left hand, with only three carpals and a single metacarpal missing; all of the bones in the right hand appeared to be present. Soil was deeply embedded in most of the surface area, making it difficult to discern any but the most obvious blemishes to the bones: a poorly healed fracture to the left clavicle, a dimple in the right femur whose origin was a mystery.

Even at this early stage, she already had a good sense of the body. Though gender was difficult to determine in one so young, she was fairly certain she was dealing with a white female, approximately eight years old. Small for her age, with a delicate bone structure. It was highly probable that she was, in fact, the girl in the missing person poster: she certainly fit the description provided. But for something like this – returning a child to her parents when surely they'd clung to some shred of hope all this time, regardless of how illogical that might seem – it was important to be sure. She knew firsthand how long one chose fantasy over reality; how often had she imagined a reunion with her mother, up until that fateful day when Christine Brennan's skull was identified in the lab?

In Brennan's experience, one held out hope up until there was irrevocably no hope to hold.

And so, she continued studying, cataloging, jotting down measurements and recording insights into her handheld digital recorder. By the time Mr. Nigel-Murray arrived – before even Cam or Jack and Angela, Brennan noted – she had successfully inventoried the entire skeleton, and had set the skull aside so that the intern of the day could begin placing tissue markers for Angela's reconstruction.

"Dr. Brennan," Nigel-Murray said cheerfully, "you're here early."

She straightened, stretching her back and rolling her neck to ease out the kinks that were inevitable after hours leaning over an exam table.

"So, this is the unhappy bloke then, eh?" The intern held a cup of coffee in one hand and a croissant in the other, his lab coat neatly pressed and an unmistakable air of excitement in his eyes.

That excitement diminished quickly, however, after a cursory examination of the skeleton.

"Young one, eh?" he asked. He took a bite of croissant and stepped closer, not appearing to notice that Brennan had yet to speak. "Female?" He grimaced, examining the long bone of the left humerus. "And no epiphysial union. Pre-teens."

He picked up the skull carefully and examined the jaw. Not unexpectedly, the incisors and canines had fallen out once the roots had decomposed; very unexpectedly, each of these teeth had been left with the bones. Brennan had reinserted each herself, thus providing complete dentition for the forensic odontologist once they had dental films to compare with those of the victim.

"Three incisors, no canines," Nigel-Murray commented. "Looks like the premolars and all but the second molars are juveniles. I'd say…" he paused, speculating for a moment. "Eight, maybe nine years old. Certainly no older, likely no younger." He'd sobered considerably since his initial appearance in the lab.

"Did you know that, proportionally speaking, the height of Mt Rushmore and the date George Orwell first – " He stopped when he caught her eye. "Right – probably not relevant now, is it? So… I s'pose you want me to get started on tissue markers? Or cleaning and inventory?"

"I've already inventoried everything," Brennan said, finally breaking her silence.

Mr. Nigel-Murray looked at her in surprise. "Oh. If you wanted me to come in earlier, I definitely would've come – you can ring me anytime, I'll be here in no time. Vincent Nigel-Murray's not one to shy from an early morning or a late night, you know."

"It wasn't necessary," Brennan assured him. "I like being here early – it gives me time to get everything in order. Just begin with the skull – I'd like Angela to start on the reconstruction as soon as possible."

"Right." Nigel-Murray saluted her. "Your wish is…" he trailed off when she turned her back on him to return to her work. "Right," she heard him say, and then didn't look up as he made his retreat.

Jack and Angela arrived together sometime later. Once again, Brennan straightened and stretched. Angela handed her a cup of coffee, then stood off to the side with her hand on her stomach – as though the mere presence of the victim's remains would somehow impact her own child. She winced.

"So, this is her, huh?"

Brennan looked at her, surprised that she appeared to know anything about the case. "This is who?"

"The little girl who was kidnapped. Cam filled us in."

"When?" She looked around, realizing for the first time that there were actually quite a few people in the lab now. Cam's office door was open, and it appeared the pathologist was meeting with someone. Disoriented, Brennan glanced at the clock.

It was just after eleven a.m.

"Where's Mr. Nigel-Murray?"

Angela rolled her eyes. "He's been 'helping' – and trust me, I use that term _very _loosely – me with the reconstruction. Seriously, Bren, you've gotta give him something to do before I brain the little twit."

"I would have had him begin cleaning the bones if I'd known he was finished with the tissue markers," Brennan said somewhat indignantly.

"I tried to tell you," Mr. Nigel-Murray interrupted, hurrying up the platform steps, "but you seemed somewhat… absorbed. I finally gave up – though I must admit, it's been fascinating working with Ms. Montenegro today."

Angela shot him a withering glance, which Brennan chose to ignore. "Have you collected samples so we can begin analyzing the particulates?" she asked Jack, who had just joined Angela.

"Sure have," Jack affirmed. "The mass spec's a little temperamental today, though, so it's gonna take a while. But have you checked out these bones?"

She raised her eyebrows and squelched a smile. Jack nodded. "Right – yeah, you've definitely checked out the bones. Anyway, we've got some serious decomp, baby. I'm thinking wherever this kid was buried, there was a party goin' on in that soil."

Brennan nodded. "Yes – I noticed that as well. It seems too severe to be organic, however."

"Oh yeah," Jack agreed. "No way this was bugs, look how porous the ribs and upper torso are. I'm thinkin' highly acidic – which should make it a cinch for me to isolate the general area where she was buried."

"It'll be another hour or two for the facial reconstruction," Angela told her. "I just need to tweak some of my calculations."

Brennan studied her friend for a moment, thinking of times in the past when working with adolescent victims had nearly meant the end of Angela's career with the Jeffersonian.

"Are you doing all right with it?" She hesitated. "I mean, if you're uncomfortable…"

Angela was wearing a loose-fitting maternity top despite the fact that – at least at this point – one really wasn't required. Her breasts seemed to be the only thing that had actually grown significantly, the cleavage filling the low-cut blouse flatteringly, while her slightly rounded stomach remained virtually unnoticeable. She considered the question for a moment before shaking her head.

"I'll be all right. I just wanna get this over with. The way I figure it, if we get this sicko off the streets, it's just one more I don't have to worry about once our little guy joins this mean world."

Cam joined them a moment later, holding a large manila envelope in one hand. "Dr. Brennan – nice to see you've rejoined the living." She nodded toward the remains. "Any progress on the ID?"

Brennan nodded. "I'm reasonably certain based on the information I've received thus far, but I'd like to wait on a positive ID until I have the dental records."

Cam stepped forward and handed her the envelope. "I figured as much. I just got off the phone with Booth – he's doing his best to keep a lid on everything until he hears from you, but you know how these things go. To be honest, I'm a little amazed it wasn't the lead story in the Post this morning."

"Booth was quite clear with the deputies on the scene – I don't think anyone there wanted to cross him," Brennan said as she pulled a series of dental films from the envelope.

She didn't hear whatever they said after that, too consumed with the evidence in front of her. This was it: as incontrovertible as she would find, this was the evidence that would tell her the identity of the child she'd spent the morning examining. Turning her back on the others, she hurried into her office and shut the door behind her.

Once alone, she slid the series of slides into place on the light box and turned it on, studying the transparent shades of black, white, and gray. Unlike the dental remains in the skull, there were only two permanent incisors and two permanent molars, but that was easily explained by the discrepancy in age when the films were taken versus when the child was abducted – Izzie Lincoln was seven and a half at her last dental check-up, and it was nearly a year later when she was reported missing. More than sufficient time for a new tooth to appear while others were lost.

There were no fillings or signs of decay, which was also consistent with the victim; apparently, Izzie Lincoln's parents had been diligent in teaching their daughter the value of good dental hygiene.

Not that it had done the child any good, Brennan thought grimly.

Brennan turned the light box off, and the x-ray darkened. It was eleven-thirty: time to call Booth and give him the news. Before she could do so, however, there was a knock on her office door. TJ stood at the entrance looking in uncertainly.

"Come in," she told him. She felt the way she always did when she'd spent hours with bones – disjointed, lost in her head. Booth and Angela were both good at bringing her back to reality. Hodgins and the others, Brennan had noticed on more than one occasion, merely avoided her.

It didn't appear TJ knew what, exactly, to do. He took a step inside, but she thought he didn't look nearly as assured as he usually did.

"Hey. Sorry – I stopped in earlier, but it looked like you were pretty immersed. How's it going?"

She gestured toward the films, still hanging where she'd left them. "All right. I just got the dental records."

"And…?"

She hesitated. "I actually shouldn't discuss it yet. Later – once I've spoken with Booth."

"Right," he nodded understandingly. "Of course, sorry. Listen, I just wondered if you were free for lunch? I got here at nine, and they said you'd already been here for hours." He took a step forward with a more relaxed smile, gesturing toward the door with a nod of his head. "C'mon, T – even superheroes've gotta eat once in a while."

She hadn't realized until he said it, but she was actually quite hungry. Yogurt for breakfast and far more coffee than was wise hardly made for a balanced diet.

"That would be fine – but I can only take half an hour. Then I should really get back."

He shook his head, his hand brushing the small of her back as he ushered her through the door.

"Anybody ever tell you you work too hard, T? You know what they call a half-hour lunch in Europe?" he asked.

She looked at him interestedly. "What?"

"Criminal," he told her with a grin. "Now, come on. Let's get you fed."

They went to the Royal Diner, at Brennan's suggestion. She wondered if she should have called Booth to tell him she was joining TJ for lunch, and found herself immediately irritated at the thought. She was an adult, having lunch at the diner with a colleague and friend. A colleague and friend who just happened to periodically drop declarations of undying devotion into their casual conversations – but a colleague and friend, nevertheless.

It was fine.

They both ordered veggie burgers, and she looked at him in surprise. "I didn't realize you were a vegetarian."

He smiled sheepishly. "Just this week – I go back and forth, have for years. I see something on factory farming, freak out, and live on tofu and tempeh for a month or two… Then my resolve gets shot to hell, and I live on burgers and steak for a year."

She laughed at this, thinking of the burgers she'd shared with Wallace Morning Owl the previous week.

"If I feel myself breaking, I try to limit myself to organically raised meat," she confided.

He arched an eyebrow. "Oh, come on – the great Temperance Brennan has self-control issues? Stop the presses."

She shrugged. "It happens to the best of us, I suppose."

There was a brief silence, before she nodded toward the file peeking out of TJ's writing bag.

"Did you bring the materials we discussed? Your father's file?"

He nodded, looking uncomfortable. She realized after a moment that she was waiting for him to skirt the issue, and was somewhat surprised when he did not.

"Yeah, I brought it. Listen… You mind if we just have lunch, for now? You must need a break after working all morning, and…" he paused, blushing slightly. Pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger before finally confessing, "It was harder to dig through that stuff than I thought. It's not like it's news or anything, but somehow reading through the reports this time just... got to me. Do you think we could kind of ease into it, just a little?"

She nodded readily. "Of course. Whenever you're ready."

"You'll be the first to know," he agreed.

She noticed at some point over the course of the meal that TJ's right ear had been pierced at one time and long since healed, and there was the pointed edge of a tattoo done in black ink, peeking out the top of his crewneck jersey. She also noticed that the waitress lingered over their table longer than necessary, and several female patrons seemed inordinately interested in them. Since she was typically with Booth, she was accustomed to the extra attention – nevertheless, she found it somewhat surprising. Up until that moment, she hadn't actually noticed the extent of TJ's obvious physical appeal.

Halfway through lunch, discussing a recent lecture she'd gone to on forensic accuracy in procedural fiction, TJ stopped talking suddenly. He shook his head, and Brennan looked at him curiously.

"What?" she asked, taking another sip of club soda as TJ helped himself to her fries.

"Nothing," he said, rolling his eyes. "I just… I was kind of hoping I'd come here and spend more time with you, and you'd turn out to be this dry, detached, emotionless… science-obsessed spinster."

Her hand paused in mid-air. She set it down, feeling suddenly awkward. "And?"

"Disappointed again," he told her, avoiding her eyes. He looked out the window for a moment, appearing distracted before he returned her gaze. "I watched you a little this morning, you know." She started to protest, but he held up his hand. "Not in a creepy stalker way, I swear. Just… I was coming to do the whole writer-shadows-real-world-professional thing, and you just…" he shrugged, tilting his head as he studied her.

"You get this line in your forehead." He leaned forward and touched the center of her forehead, tracing the crease that she knew would become a wrinkle in just a few years. His finger was cool, and it didn't feel as intrusive as it should have. She pulled back, breaking contact, and he dropped his hand.

"Sorry," he said, but he didn't stop talking. "Anyway… Yeah. You know, if you ever wanted to get away from all this – putting together broken little girls, breaking parents' hearts… We could go to Paris. Spend a summer hiking around New Zealand, climb some monumental mountain or swim some monumental ocean." He bit his lip, and met her eye. "Hole up in a cabana with no electricity, live on fresh papaya and swordfish we catch with our bare hands. Stay in bed for days at a time – "

"I'm with Booth, TJ," she said quickly, sitting up straighter and making sure that she maintained eye contact. She thought of Sully, living in a yacht in the middle of nowhere, with no cases or puzzles or bones with which to pass his time.

"I'm not going anywhere. And I'd prefer it if we keep this week professional," she told him seriously. "I've apparently let this go on too long, thinking you'd get… bored, with what's clearly just infatuation with what you can't have." Her eyes stwere ill on his, but she was somewhat unnerved to find how intently he was gazing at her. He rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, right. That's it." He became serious again. "But you're right – you're doing me a favor, the least I can do is be a civilized adult. So, I'll be good. Professional."

She nodded approvingly, glancing at her watch. It didn't seem wise, suddenly, to linger any longer. "I'd appreciate that. We should go – I still need to tell Booth about the case."

TJ nodded and stood. He paused for a moment before he caught her by the arm, waiting until she met his gaze before he spoke. "You know, I really am sorry – I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just been a weird few months, and for whatever reason… you're just easy to talk to."

He shook his head as though clearing it of whatever inappropriate thoughts may have been stored there. A lock of blonde hair fell into his eyes; he made no move to brush it away.

"But what's say we just write this past hour off and start fresh? We solve my father's murder, I learn how to write forensics, I don't mention the fact that your eyes are the exact shade of an ocean I'd willingly drown in…" She arched an eyebrow, and he grinned devilishly, raising an eyebrow. "Whoops. My bad."

She bit her lip, frowning uncomfortably. "We should go."

"Right." He started to put his hand at the small of her back again, but she stepped aside and motioned for him to walk ahead of her.

They returned to the lab.

It was after one by the time Booth was able to make it to the Jeffersonian – with Sweets tagging along after him, Brennan noted with some irritation. He breezed past TJ with barely a word, delivering donuts to Angela and pausing to trade gibes with everyone before he came to see her. Brennan was far more uncertain about seeing him than she'd anticipated, as they'd had no real opportunity to talk since the fight and subsequent conversation last night. After a moment or two, she realized that she was waiting for a cue from him – some indication that they were all right.

He met her eye once everyone else was occupied, and she felt the same sense of comfort she always felt when she looked at Booth. He gave her the smile that seemed reserved for the two of them, and she leaned in and kissed him quickly. This time, he was the one who held on – his hand at the back of her neck, his other at her waist.

"Hey, babe," he said softly. He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.

"I'm sorry I missed you this morning," she told him. The others were coming – he let her go, and they stepped apart.

"That's okay," he assured her, "I knew you had a lot to get done." His voice became more professional once everyone was within hearing range.

She gave him her opinion: she was reasonably certain that the remains belonged to the missing child, Izzie Lincoln. There was a hurried exchange, and within half an hour, Booth was headed for the airport and Brennan was left to contemplate Izzie Lincoln's mysterious cause of death.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Brennan worked with the Lincoln remains while TJ looked over her shoulder, inundating her with questions about every aspect of her process. She couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. As afternoon faded to evening, he retired to the lounge to copy his notes and rewrite a draft he was working on, all trace of the earlier impropriety between them completely gone.

While Brennan was analyzing an anomaly in the dentition in her office, Cam came to say goodnight. Brennan imagined that Jack and Angela had gone home some time ago, as had the other interns, while TJ continued to write in the lounge. The lab had gone dark, the lights coming on occasionally as security made their rounds. It was only six-thirty, but it may as well have been midnight.

"I assume you haven't learned anything more about cause of death?" the pathologist asked. She already had her jacket on, but didn't seem in any particular rush to leave.

Brennan shook her head regretfully. "There's nothing I've been able to discern from the bones – it will be up to trace analysis of the particulates and what little soft tissue we were able to recover, I'm afraid."

"Any guesses?"

Brennan merely smiled, and Cam rolled her eyes. "Right. Sorry – forgot who I was talking to. No guesses. Any… theories?"

She hesitated a moment before going to the jaw, nodding toward the teeth. "Do you have a moment? If you wouldn't mind just taking a look…?"

Cam carefully picked up the jaw and looked at it intently, paying careful attention to the dentition. She looked at Brennan, then back at the jaw.

"One of the incisors is chipped," she noted after a moment.

Brennan nodded. "Yes."

"And it looks like there's some damage to one of the canines, as well."

"That's what I've observed."

"And I assume the damage wasn't present in her dental films antemortem?"

"Your assumption is correct."

Cam scratched her neck, leaning down to look at the jaw at eye level. "So… that kind of damage could be done by biting down hard on something, couldn't it? If a foreign object had been placed in the mouth with some force?"

The pathologist looked uncomfortable with the implication, but intrigued with the possibilities. Which Brennan understood, as she'd been struggling with the same feelings since her discovery earlier that evening.

"That's what I thought initially, as well. But look at the way the upper and lower jaw align," Brennan instructed.

Cam did so, straightening as she experimentally opened and closed the jaw several times. A crease appeared in her forehead as she considered her findings.

"She did it herself, then – damage to the upper and lower incisors match up. So…" She thought for several seconds, before carefully setting the skull down once more and fixing her gaze on Brennan. "Something that would cause her to clamp down with such force that she'd chip her teeth. That implies an involuntary reaction – a seizure?"

Brennan nodded. "That's my current theory."

Before Cam could comment any further on the matter, Angela came in and – in typical Angela fashion – dramatically shut the door behind her and locked it.

"Okay – we're here for an intervention."

Cam looked slightly horrified. "Uh – actually, only one of us is here for an intervention. The other is here to find out how the Lincoln case is coming along, and then she's going home."

Angela shot a look at Cam, then turned to Brennan with her hands on her hips. "We're here for an intervention," she repeated, more firmly this time.

"And into what, exactly, are you intervening?" Brennan asked. The sentence didn't sound right – she ran through it in her head, but couldn't think of another way to phrase it.

"Your stud-muffin upstairs," Angela said. "Writer Boy."

"TJ," Brennan corrected her with a frown.

Angela came in and sat down on the side of the sofa, pulling Brennan with her. Cam looked at the door, looked back at them, appeared to have some type of internal debate, and finally muttered, "Oh, what the hell," and came over. She took a chair opposite the sofa, the three women facing one another seriously.

"Okay, here's what this is like," Angela told her. "This is like – all right, you're a car."

Brennan raised an eyebrow. "I'm a car?"

"A car. You're sleek and sexy and fast and…"

Cam waved a hand, signaling for Angela to summarize. "Okay, we get it, she's a car."

"I'd like to be a hybrid," Brennan said.

Angela shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Fine, sweetie. You're a hybrid. Economical and fast and great for the environment. But you've got one driver – "

"Wow – I am _not_ comfortable with this metaphor," Cam said suddenly, her eyebrows climbing higher up her forehead.

Brennan looked at them both for a moment, not certain if she was clear where Angela was going. "I have a driver?"

"Not a literal driver," Angela said quickly. "Just – it's just for the sake of the metaphor. You have one, you know, _guy_ who drives you."

Cam cringed. "Maybe we could go with something else?"

Angela shook her head. "No – Just relax, I've got this. You have one driver, right? And yeah, every so often it's fine to go out on your own, light some candles, and kind of take _yourself_ for a spin, but…"

Brennan had thought she was getting better at these sorts of conversations, but she found herself lost this time. "Wait – is this about sex?"

"Yes!" Angela said triumphantly. "Exactly. So… You have Booth, right, and it's fine for other guys to come around and, you know, keep you company, maybe keep your seat warm. And your engine might still run while they're around, but, sweetie, you've gotta keep it in park with these guys."

Cam's jaw had dropped slightly. "Please tell me you're not serious with this."

Angela looked at her innocently. "What? I think that's pretty clear."

"I can't have sex with TJ, because I'm dating Booth," Brennan interpreted.

Both women stared at her in surprise. If she'd just come up with an alternate theory for the time-space-continuum, they couldn't have looked more impressed.

Brennan rolled her eyes. "I know I have some challenges when it comes to emotion and empathy and the less… logical aspects of the human species, but I'd appreciate it if people stopped looking at me as though I've made some significant breakthrough every time I have the slightest insight into our interactions. I've known everyone here for several years now, and it's not as though I'm an imbecile. I am capable of growth."

Cam shook her head quickly. "You're absolutely right – we apologize. I just… This isn't just about sex." Her internal debate continued for a moment before she edged forward in her seat, looking at Brennan with surprising intensity. "This thing with TJ could get very messy, very fast."

"Booth and I are fine," Brennan said. "Clearly, we have our challenges – as I assume any couple does. But, I have no interest in TJ. Booth knows that."

"See, that's where these things get tricky," Cam said. She looked at Angela as though for affirmation; the other woman nodded, signaling for her to continue. When she did, her words picked up momentum – as if she'd finally stumbled on what she'd been trying to say all along.

"Here's the thing," Cam continued, "and I'll make this fast, because trust me I'm no expert on any of this, but…" She took a breath, steadying herself before continuing, "Seeley comes off as very sure of himself, I know, but a guy like TJ? That's basically his worst nightmare – especially where you're concerned."

This got Brennan's attention. Angela nodded her agreement. Brennan straightened, tilting her head speculatively. "I don't know what that means," she confessed. It wasn't something she liked to admit, particularly in Cam's presence – regardless of how far their relationship had progressed, she remained keenly aware of the balance of power between them.

"Well, there's the GQ model factor, which clearly doesn't help the issue," Angela said. "And he's sophisticated. Brilliant. Rich, now that he sold that book for a gajillion dollars. _And, _you two obviously share that whole foster-kid-kindred-spirit thing."

Brennan thought once more of Booth's intensity the night before: _Tell me you missed me. _His obvious displeasure at TJ's presence. And, of course, her conversation with TJ about Booth's income. She understood that Booth was jealous; she just hadn't understood exactly _why. _

"You think Booth believes I'd leave him?"

"We think he believes you'd leave him for someone like TJ," Cam amended. "Okay, put it this way: someone exactly like you comes along and makes a play for Booth. How do you feel?"

Brennan hesitated, considering the question. Finally, she shrugged. "I don't think I'd be terribly threatened, to be honest."

"Sure," Cam agreed, "because he's already got someone brilliant and assured and attractive, and you're fairly confident about those aspects of who you are." Brennan supposed she should make some type of disparaging remark about herself, but it seemed like a waste of time. She remained silent.

Angela continued where Cam had left off. For a moment, Brennan wondered if the two had already planned this – it really was surprisingly well choreographed. "Now, let's say some little hottie comes along, and she knows all about the Steelers and growing up in Philly, and she's Catholic and great with Parker and wants kids and…"

Brennan held up her hand, feeling the point all too keenly. "You can stop – I told you, I'm not an imbecile. I get it."

Cam smiled. "Good." She paused a moment before adding, "And just so you know, that hypothetical perfect match Angela just described for Booth?" Another smile, wider this time, accompanied by a raise of eyebrows. "Booth doesn't want her anymore than you want TJ."

Which actually did make Brennan feel quite a bit better, all things considered.

Once Angela and Cam seemed satisfied that Brennan had gotten the message, she returned to the Lincoln case for another hour or so before she finally admitted defeat. Yes, she believed the damage to the teeth was relevant, but she wouldn't know more until analysis of the soft tissue came back. Izzie Lincoln had no history of a seizure disorder, so the possibility that the girl had ingested something toxic enough to induce one was certainly a possible cause of death.

She had no answers.

Her back ached. Her neck ached. She was hungry and tired, and found herself somewhat cranky at the knowledge that Booth was gone yet again – which was selfish and inconsiderate given his unsavory mission that evening, but she couldn't help it. Wong Foo's and one of Booth's incredible shoulder massages were really the only things she wanted tonight.

Instead, she had paperwork and other bodies she'd neglected in favor of Izzie Lincoln, intern evaluations and the neverending demands of her publisher… And TJ, lingering in her doorway while she gathered her things.

"You know, a friend of mine's doing a reading tonight at this place downtown," he told her. "I told him I'd try to make it."

She looked at him, trying not to appear too relieved. "That's all right – we could meet for breakfast tomorrow, when we're both rested. We'll have a fresh perspective."

He smiled at her, his green eyes lightening slightly, laugh lines crinkling endearingly. "Have you seen me in the mornings, T? Sorry, but fresh isn't exactly the adjective that comes to mind." He hesitated, surveying her for a moment before he continued. "I was actually thinking you should get changed into something a little less… labbish, and come out with me. My friend's reading at this place over on F Street – it should be a good time."

"TJ, with this case – "

He made a face at her. "You said yourself, you won't know anything until your tests come back. We'll make it an early night, I promise. You can cut out whenever you want – but you've gotta eat, right? And I'm only in town for a week, so… why not eat with me?"

Logical, but she still wasn't enthusiastic. She was slightly more interested when TJ told her it was Café Nietzsche – a restaurant that featured only food raised organically from local farmers, with a share of the profits going to a DC food bank Brennan had supported for years. The writer was someone named Steve Almond, about whom she knew virtually nothing, but TJ was right about one thing:

She did have to eat.

They met outside the restaurant at eight o'clock. Brennan had taken great care to wear something that was appropriate for the evening without actually trying to look _good_. She didn't freshen her make-up, barely brushed out her hair. Given the atmosphere, she was pleased she had sacrificed jeans for something nicer, but even then she'd chosen a black dress with long sleeves and a high neck – the type Booth would mock her for wearing, she was certain. She'd popped a breath mint on the way out because even she was offended by her breath at that point; she couldn't in good conscience subject someone else to that, no matter how disinterested she was trying to appear.

The streets of DC were decorated with wreaths and white lights, bells ringing on streetcorners and canned Christmas music coming from the department store next door. Brennan was running slightly late, and noted that TJ looked unmistakably chilled, though he denied waiting long. He looked amused when he took in her outfit, shaking his head as he tried to squelch a smile.

"Wow," he said, standing aside as he held the door open for her. "I don't think I've ever had anyone try so hard not to impress me."

She felt her cheeks flush. "Is it that obvious?"

"Sorry, Tempe… You're still gorgeous." As they entered the crowded restaurant, he moved in closer and said in her ear, "Points for effort, though."

His breath was warm and his body was solid, and Brennan wished suddenly – just for an instant, one split second – that she'd taken more time with her appearance.

Alarmed at the thought, she quickly stepped away from her companion and tried to focus instead on her surroundings. Dinner suddenly seemed like a very, very bad idea.

Café Nietzsche had been cast as an homage to the American twenties: a contrasting palate of blues and silvers, black and crystal and sleek lines, waitresses with bobs and flapper dresses and waiters in jackets and tails. Alcohol was poured from flasks behind a drawn curtain, suggesting that Prohibition had not yet been repealed.

An Afghan hound – a live one, Brennan realized after a moment – was lying on a raised platform to the left of the entrance, its sleek muzzle stretched out on graceful paws and an expression of utter boredom on its elongated face.

TJ glanced around with a grin, taking Brennan's jacket for her and handing it to the coat check girl by the door.

"It's a little more… elaborate than I expected." Though the words weren't technically an apology, they sounded unmistakably apologetic.

She moved to the left to allow another couple to pass, the woman laughing boisterously while her companion held onto her arm, as though restraining her from coming unglued entirely.

"That's all right," she told him, taking a cautious step toward him in order to be heard. "I've been curious about the place. And I've heard the food is very good."

"That's the rumor," he agreed.

An awkward silence fell between them, which seemed only to be magnified by the chaos and frivolity in the Café. She realized that she had two choices: she could endure the evening and be miserable, or she could relax and enjoy the atmosphere and the company. She was an adult, capable of having an evening out with an attractive man without any sense of impropriety – wasn't that one of the advantages of the twenty-first century? She touched TJ's arm and leaned in.

"Will you excuse me a moment – I'm just going to go freshen up."

He looked at her in surprise, but nodded readily. "Of course. We'll probably still be in line when you get back, anyway."

When she returned, she felt better. Though she could do nothing about her outfit, she'd at least reapplied her make-up and swept her hair back. TJ had been shown to a table at the back; she saw him grin when she reappeared, and took a deep breath.

What had Angela said? _The engine's still there, you just gotta keep it in park. _Simple enough.

She wiped the palms of her hands on her jeans, and strode purposefully across the crowded restaurant. This was just a test: an evening out with an attractive friend who was attracted to her. She was Dr. Temperance Brennan, damn it: she was very good at tests. She could do this.

As it turned out, the better part of the evening was simpler than she'd dared hope. Everyone around them was speaking too loudly for any kind of meaningful conversation, and TJ still didn't appear to have any interest in talking about his father's case. The food was good, but in between shouting truncated remarks about the décor and the music, she found herself drifting back to the Lincoln case. No trauma to the bones, with the exception of the chipped teeth: had Izzie Lincoln been poisoned? Or was it possible she'd actually died accidentally? That seemed unlikely, given how she'd been found. It was all conjecture, of course, but Brennan wished she'd had more time to talk to Booth about it before he left.

She wondered what kind of information he'd have when they spoke tonight. What his evening had been like. She finished her meal having barely noticed what she'd eaten – something with steamed vegetables and grilled seitan that TJ had ordered for her (a move Booth had long ago learned was unwise) – and was watching an intoxicated girl sway in time to the music at the far end of the bar before she realized TJ was watching her.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, sensing that he'd been talking. "I think I'm just tired – it's been a very long day. I'm afraid I'm not very good company."

He smiled. "You're bored."

"I'm tired," she told him frankly. "I'm always like this when I'm working on a case – distracted and overly analytical. Everything always seems to come back to it… It's my way of processing the data I've taken in in the lab. Booth's the same way – we're both very single-minded when we're working on something."

A nod, the smile still in place – though it didn't appear quite so genuine now. "Yeah, I can imagine. You two really are quite the pair." He paused, then leaned down and reached for the writer's bag he seemed to carry everywhere with him.

"Well – let me just give you this, and you can get out of here. I know you're working on this other case, so take your time with the files… Neither of my parents are coming back from the dead anytime soon, so it's not like this is pressing. Just check it out when you have time."

He handed her a thin manila file folder. Someone was shouting at the bar, the steady rhythm of a samba playing in the background. It was a Monday night: didn't any of these people have jobs? TJ's friend wasn't due to take the stage until ten o'clock, and Brennan found herself thinking once more of the chaos at the writing conference over the summer. She thought of the life Angela had lived up until a few months ago: late nights and dance clubs, casual connections and pulsing beats.

"I'll look at it when I get home," she told him. She was already standing.

"I know you will, T." He walked her to the door; she wondered how late he would stay. Whether he would return to the hotel alone. Somehow, she thought it was unlikely. She realized that the thought bothered her, which didn't seem like a good thing.

Once she'd retrieved her coat, they stepped outside. The night air was cold, traffic still steady despite the advancing hour. TJ crossed his arms over his chest to retain some body heat, leaning against the building while they said goodnight. She'd had tea with dinner, but TJ had been drinking scotch and soda steadily over the course of the evening. His pupils were slightly dilated, but otherwise he didn't seem impacted by the alcohol.

"I wish you could stay – Steve's a great guy. He's a lot of fun."

Brennan smiled at this. "All your friends are a lot of fun – I don't know how any of you get anything done, with all the fun you're always having." She hadn't meant it as a criticism, but it came out sounding that way.

TJ winced. "Yeah, well… Writers, right? It's not a bad way to live. Still…" he hesitated. "I really do wish you'd stay. Let yourself forget about the bad guys for a while."

He straightened, taking a step closer. There was an intensity to his eyes that Brennan found difficult to ignore. When he spoke, his words were rushed – as though it was something he'd been working up to for some time.

"Stay with me. Drink too much. Stay up too late. Sleep in." He bit his lip, and she knew what was coming. "Come back to the hotel with me, Tempe. Call in sick tomorrow - we'll order room service and make love 'til we can't move." He closed the distance between them, his hand resting on her cheek, eyes searching hers. "I could be good for you, in ways he'll never be."

Breathing was suddenly marginally more difficult than it had been. _The engine's still there,_ she heard Angela say in the back of her head. She thought of Booth: brown eyes and strong arms, a mouth that knew every inch of her, a mind that understood hers in a way no one ever had. TJ smelled like wool and snow, the faint scent of scotch on his breath. His hand migrated from her cheek to her hair, the back of her neck; a chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather.

"Tempe," he said softly.

She swallowed. Closed her eyes, for just a moment.

And took a step back.

"I'll look over the file tonight," she told him. She hesitated. Her hands were shaking, and there was definitely a part of her – a dangerous, all-too-present part – that wanted to bridge the gap between them and forget all about future and complications, building houses or biological clocks. She could spend the night with TJ, and magically, her entire universe would be simple again. Work and work and trips to Guatemala, work and work and occasional trysts with the potential for something more. Work and work and more work. Simple in ways that she and Booth would never be.

She closed her eyes again, forcing herself to breathe. "And I don't think it's fair to Booth for you to continue shadowing me this week – I apologize. There are other departments you might find equally intriguing, or I can ask Booth to set something up with the FBI. He and I will look over your case – the three of us can meet together from now on."

TJ blinked twice, nodding rapidly. Took two steps back, as though she'd physically pushed him away. "Of course. I – that's probably the best way to handle this. And don't worry about the job shadow thing – Lethem's got someone he's been wanting me to talk to, I'll connect with them. Just give me a call if you think there's anything to my father's case."

"TJ – " Brennan started.

He glanced at his watch, managing a smile that looked nothing like the ones he'd given earlier. "The reading should start soon, and it's cold – you're shivering. I'm gonna go in."

"I really am sorry," she said. He met her eye again with a thoughtful nod.

"I know you are. I think it'd be easier if you weren't, to be honest. Just take care, T. I'll talk to you in a couple days."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, lingering for just a moment before Brennan stepped away. When he opened the door to return inside, music and laughter spilled onto the sidewalk, then stopped abruptly once he was gone. Brennan just stood there for a moment afterward, fighting the urge to follow him back inside. One night, one single move. And then, she thought of Booth again: the little gifts he was always giving her, the way it felt dancing in his arms, how he held her... The way they talked, the way they fought, the way they fit.

She turned around and returned to her car, alone.

By the time she returned to her apartment, Brennan felt inexplicably lighter. She got a bowl of Ben & Jerry's from the freezer, and brought it and TJ's father's file to bed with her. The phone was on the nightstand, the German shepherd Booth had gotten her sitting guard beside it. The apartment was silent, a welcome change from the chatter and clatter of Café Nietzsche. Booth hadn't called yet, which was unusual – typically, he called by nine when a phone was available. Of course, there could have been flight delays or unexpected complications once he'd arrived in Louisville. No real reason to worry.

The case file on Alan Wright was surprisingly thin, with minimal crime scene photos and only extremely crude diagrams from the coroner who'd performed the autopsy. What struck Brennan as most peculiar, however, was the absence of post mortem photos of the victim. There were shots of the scene, the blood spatter on the desk and the far wall, yellow markers indicating each piece of evidence found in the study. The body itself, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Nor were there photos taken of the autopsy – one had only the coroner's report to rely on to ensure that nothing had been missed. Because the investigation had focused solely on TJ's mother – who had, of course, fled the state with TJ – it appeared that no other suspects were even interviewed. No other leads pursued. The entire case was shoddy at best; downright negligent at worst.

Jeanine Wright had insisted on her innocence, according to TJ, from the time they fled all the way to the time of her arrest. That had only changed when Philip Taylor walked into the prison with her son.

Brennan flipped through the file again, but there was nothing solid enough for her to review. Lacking crime scene photographs or a more comprehensive account of the physical evidence, she honestly had no idea where to begin. Booth would know, of course, but – despite what she'd said to TJ – she was uncertain of the wisdom of involving him in the case.

She sighed in frustration, setting the file aside. Writing would be a better use of her time – she'd gotten a great deal done while Booth had been gone the previous week, but there was always more to do. Of course, what she should _really _be doing was sleeping… She just didn't think she'd be able.

No sooner had she turned off the light and curled up beneath the blankets to try than the phone rang. She didn't bother to turn on the light, but did a quick double take when she checked the caller ID. It took a moment for her to connect the name – Lincoln, with an area code didn't recognize – with Booth's location.

"Dr. Temperance Brennan," she answered.

"Hey, baby." Low and slightly rough, intimate and familiar. She smiled, taken aback at how good it was to hear his voice. She lay back down and pulled the covers up over her shoulders.

"Booth?"

She could picture his eye roll, that smirk that occasionally drove her mad. "Yeah, Bones – Booth. You got anybody else calling you baby in the middle of the night?"

The call got off to a slightly rough start after that – she told him about going over TJ's file over dinner, giving him a carefully edited version of the night, and then waited uneasily for his response. Beyond his derision of Café Nietzsche – which she'd anticipated – he seemed to take it all in stride. They touched on the case briefly, and then he launched into an animated retelling of his night – his voice light, the conversation punctuated with their laughter and his flagrant use of hyperbole and… him, solid and effortless.

"Seriously, Bones – I'm telling you, this goat must've stood six feet tall. And the antlers – "

"I think goats have horns, actually," she corrected him.

"Well, whatever they were – they were huge. And you should see this dog, Bones. Saddest damned thing I've ever seen, but she's got nice eyes. You'd like her. And I'm pretty sure she's gonna take up even more of the bed than you do."

"_I_ take up the bed?" she asked in disbelief. "You're bigger than I am, and you sprawl – you always choose the exact center, and I'm left clinging to the edge."

"That's just so you have to cuddle up more, Bones," he told her. "If you didn't have such a big damned bed, I wouldn't have to take up so much space."

Which was completely illogical, but made her laugh regardless. She hesitated for a long moment, thinking again of her evening with TJ. She found herself laughing at the absurdity of it all – Booth chasing goats and sleeping with a bald collie, the reality that there was no one she wanted to be with the way she wanted to be with him – and finally answered when Booth asked,

"What's so funny, Bones?"

"I don't know – nothing, really. Except…" she paused, curling herself up more tightly in bed. Rested her head on the pillow that still smelled like him. "I really do miss you, when you're not here." It was too sentimental, too much to say. But then she thought of his face the night before – how much he'd seemed to need that sentiment. Took a breath, and a chance. "Even when it's illogical. Even when it's only a night. I do miss you."

There was a brief pause before he responded – as always, there to catch her when the leap seemed too great. "Yeah, Bones. I know what you mean."

The second body was found at 11am the next morning. Booth wasn't due back until that evening, so Brennan got the call from Deputy Director Werner himself. As was typical with her communications with the Deputy Director, the phone call was terse and to the point: there was a body. It had been found along a trail in Staunton River State Park; did she mind driving, or would she prefer a commuter plane? It was a four-hour drive in the best of weather – Brennan glanced out the window of her office at the gray sky, thinking of the forecast that morning. She sighed.

"Are there planes available?"

"There's something going on in West Virginia, they've got half our pilots and just about every small plane in the goddamn country there."

"So Booth will be driving as well?" she asked. She wondered why she hadn't heard from him directly about this development.

"He's catching a commercial flight up to Raleigh-Durham – he should be there around three."

About the time she would be there, provided she didn't hit traffic or a blizzard along the way.

"That will be fine. Will Agent Perotta be escorting me?" She tried to keep the disdain from her voice. And failed, by a fairly wide margin.

"She's on another case," he informed her. "You're on your own, but you and Booth'll probably hit the scene at about the same time. I just want someone there to keep the locals in check and the reporters at bay 'til we can figure out what the fuck's going on. This is high profile, and once word gets out that somebody's kidnapping and murdering cop's kids, things aren't gonna get any easier."

"I'll do what I can." She scanned her office, trying to determine whether or not she'd need to go back to her apartment before leaving.

A moment's silence passed. She expected him to hang up, but instead he cleared his throat. It didn't strike her as a good sign.

"Listen, Brennan, I know this is a pain in the ass, but the Director's been on me ever since he found out about the… uh, relationship between you and Booth. So, the review was the best I could come up with to make sure I can keep my best team working and get him off my back."

"I understand," she said absently. Her overnight bag was in the office along with a change of clothes and all of the basic amenities. She was debating about whether or not she should ask Hodgins or one of the interns to accompany her when what Werner was saying finally got through.

"So, Sweets'll just pick you up at the Jeffersonian, and the two of you can drive out together."

Once she finally realized what he was saying, she resisted the urge to argue. What was it Booth was always saying? She had to learn to pick her battles. She blew out a lungful of air and began gathering her things, resigned to what promised to be a very long day ahead.

"Tell him to hurry," she finally said, and finished the call by getting the few details Werner had regarding the remains.

Sweets arrived just half an hour later. He was clearly surprised when she agreed that they take his car. Though she would never admit it aloud, she was thinking that it would be nice to ride back with Booth – an opportunity to actually spend a few hours together, when lately their hectic schedules made that increasingly difficult.

She took the passenger's seat with little comment, thinking for a moment of her drive with TJ just two days before. She'd left messages for the writer on both his cell phone and at his hotel, but had received no response. She wanted to talk to him about his father's death; she also felt a strange desire to apologize again, though she knew she had no real reason. He was clearly the one who'd overstepped his bounds.

During the drive, Brennan was so consumed with her thoughts that she barely acknowledged Sweets at all. It wasn't until they were an hour into the trip that the psychologist cleared his throat loudly and then, still getting no response from her, followed up with a pointed question.

"Have I done something to upset you, Dr. Brennan? I mean apart from, you know, being here?"

It was snowing again – just a light dusting, nothing to be concerned about, but it still had a powerful effect on Sweets' abilities behind the wheel. He was traveling as though through blizzard conditions, keeping several car lengths' behind the rest of the traffic.

"I'm preoccupied with the case," she told him – which wasn't a complete lie, but felt very much like one.

He nodded, but she got the sense that he didn't believe her. "Booth gets back this afternoon?" he asked.

She nodded absently. There was a pickup truck in front of them that, impossibly enough, was traveling even more slowly than Sweets. Rather than passing the vehicle, however, he tapped the brake. At this rate, it would be dark by the time they reached the crime scene.

"He caught an earlier flight – he should arrive shortly after we do, certainly by early evening." She made a face, looking at him pointedly. "Though at this rate, he may have already completed analysis and be on his way home by the time we arrive."

Her insinuation was either lost on him, or he chose to ignore it. "So, how long do you think we're gonna be there? I mean, at the crime scene?"

"I'll need to go over the area, and Werner requested that Booth and I oversee things to make certain they're done properly." She glanced at him. "I expect we'll be staying at a hotel tonight – if you don't want to spend the afternoon at the scene, I'm sure one of the sheriff's deputies would be willing to give you a ride there."

"No, no – that's fine. It's just…"

"You don't like being in the field?" she asked. She couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. Who didn't like being in the field?

"No, that's not it. I mean – it's not exactly a thrill standing there while you uncover these kids, but…"

Intrigued now, she glanced at him again.

"We're performing a valuable service," she told him. "The families need the closure we provide. Besides which, without the evidence that we find, the killers would never be brought to justice."

"Well… yeah, absolutely," Sweets agreed. "It's just…"

"Just what?" A trace of impatience in her voice now.

"It's kind of cold," he finally admitted reluctantly. "I mean – a quick go-over I can see, but you guys are out there for hours at a time. Don't you get tired of it?"

She considered the question honestly. Did she get tired? Finally, she took a long breath – trying to determine how best to phrase what the work became in situations like this.

"I don't really notice the elements, once I begin working," she told him. "Once I have the remains, it becomes about the case – identifying the victim, preserving the evidence, determining everything I can." She considered this for a moment. "Booth's the one who notices the extraneous details – whether or not we've eaten, how long we've been in the cold. He's the one who brings dry clothes when I'm soaked through or coffee when I'm shivering… I never really notice those sorts of things, myself."

She caught a smile from Sweets in her periphery, and grimaced.

"Wait – that was a trick, wasn't it? You don't mind the cold – you just wanted me to reveal something about my partnership with Booth."

She expected him to deny it. He did not.

"It's my job to learn these things, Dr. Brennan. If I could just ask you point-blank and could expect an honest response in return, that would obviously be my preference."

For some reason, she doubted that this was actually true.

"Are you going to try to break up the partnership?"

Sweets looked at her in surprise. "Why would I do that? Look, I know we've had our problems in the past, but I consider you both to be good friends." He paused. She sensed he was building to something. "But, just because we're friends doesn't mean I can just forget this assignment. And to be completely honest, our friendship is one of the reasons I'm taking this so seriously."

He slumped back in his seat, looking somewhat defeated. "It'd be a lot easier if I didn't like you, as a matter of fact. But if the partnership is gonna put you guys in danger because you're a couple – "

"That's absurd," Brennan interrupted "You _know _that's absurd."

He tipped an eyebrow at her, glancing at her for a moment before returning his focus to the road. "Okay – let's speak in hypotheticals for a moment."

She made a face, but finally nodded her consent.

"Good. Okay, so you have a case that culminates in a rigorous pursuit. Your suspect turns and discharges his weapon; Booth and an innocent bystander are both shot. What do you do?"

She rolled her eyes, trying to hide her discomfort at the scenario Sweets had posited.

"I'd call for an ambulance," she informed him. "And then I'd evaluate each of the injuries, and determine who was in most need of immediate attention."

"The wounds are both equally serious," Sweets returned immediately. "One or the other may well die, if you don't perform lifesaving procedures."

She felt a tight knot form in her chest at the thought. "It's an absurd question," she finally said. "The likelihood of something like that happening – "

"But it _could _happen," Sweets insisted. "And you need to face the reality that your relationship changes the dynamic of the partnership. You really think Booth wouldn't let somebody else die to save you? C'mon. Give me a break."

She had no response to this. Feeling as though she'd just failed some type of test, she fell silent and remained that way for the remainder of the drive.

When they finally reached their destination, it was nearly four o'clock. The scene was much the same as the one on Sunday – a snowy state park with minimal foot traffic, now overrun with police vehicles.

The remains were staged in exactly the same manner as Izzie Lincoln: wrapped in a sheet on a well-marked trail. A laminated missing persons poster was tied around the left wrist. Unlike Izzie Lincoln's body, there was still some soft tissue clinging to the bones, which Brennan thought would be helpful when conducting toxicology analysis. Like Izzie, gender in one so young was difficult to determine. After some analysis, Brennan decided the bones likely belonged to a male between the ages of ten and twelve years old – just a few years older than Parker. She felt slightly ill at the thought.

The sheriff on scene looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't recall his name. He came over and stood off to the side while she was examining the body, casting a shadow that made working exceedingly difficult.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, making an attempt to keep the irritation from her voice.

Her hands were cold, her nose frozen. The snow had turned to freezing rain, which was considerably less pleasant than the powdery flurries that had been falling at the last crime scene. She wondered how much longer Booth would be.

"It's Sheriff Watkins, Dr. Brennan," the man informed her cordially. He was a big man – over six feet, overweight by perhaps thirty pounds. Brennan straightened, wincing as she flexed the ankle she'd broken that summer.

"I just wanted to know if it'd be all right to let some of my guys go – there's an accident on 360 that needs sorting out."

She nodded readily. "Of course. If you could just keep someone to help box the remains, Booth and I can handle the rest."

It wasn't until she'd crouched back down to continue her analysis that she considered what he'd said: a crash on 360. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly four-thirty and already almost dark out – Booth should have been here by now… Traveling 360, exactly where the accident must have been.

Sweets had been making himself surprisingly useful by agreeing to assist her with the preliminary exam, but now he was off discussing something with the deputies. Brennan hesitated for only a moment before she straightened once more, retrieved her cell phone from her jacket pocket, and went in search of a cell signal.

She'd no sooner found a signal in a clearing just beyond the cars when the phone rang in her hand, startling her in the stillness. She glanced at the display – felt first a pang of disappointment at the realization that it wasn't Booth, followed immediately by worry at sight of Rebecca's name and number.

There was a moment's hesitation after she'd answered, then a quick inhale.

"Hi, Bones. It's me – Parker Booth," she suppressed a smile at the boy's use of both first and last name, then immediately fell back into worry over what he could possibly be calling about.

"Parker, are you all right?"

"Yeah, Bones, sure," he said easily. "I just wanted to talk to you."

She was standing in the parking lot with freezing rain dripping down her face, pelting her parka and her frozen nose. A dead child lay unclaimed and unidentified in the woods, the second such body found in a matter of days. Booth was lost on the highway somewhere, and when she glanced to her left it seemed quite clear that Sweets was annoying the hell out of a ring of sheriff's deputies.

And Parker wanted to talk.

"Okay. Well… Did you have anything in particular you wanted to discuss?"

"Yeah, but Dad said you might be busy 'cause you work so much, and Mom said it's better not to just call outta the blue. Instead, I thought maybe we could get together sometime."

"Of course," she said quickly. "Won't I see you this weekend?"

"Yeah, but I'll be with my dad. I thought maybe we could get together just you and me. Maybe you could pick me up tomorrow after school? We could go to the Diner – I've got my own money. I could buy you some pie."

She squelched a grin, vacillating between confusion and curiosity. After a moment's hesitation, while she tried to determine whether or not she would actually be back in DC by the afternoon, she finally agreed. She was to pick him up at his school at three – he gave very clear instructions, obviously placing a great deal of import on their meeting. Brennan hung up and replayed the conversation in her head, trying to imagine what the boy could possibly want to discuss with her that he couldn't say in front of Booth.

After a few seconds, however, she remembered why she had her phone out in the first place. She hit speed-dial and waited an interminable four rings before Booth finally picked up.

"What's the matter, Bones – you couldn't wait another ten minutes to hear my voice?"

She took a breath, ignored the obvious easing of tension and the very slightly weakening of her knees at the knowledge that he was fine.

"There was an accident on Highway 360," she told him. Her voice sounded shaky.

"And you were worried," he said. He sounded pleased. "I just missed it, actually. There were sirens screaming past me, but that's all I saw of it. My flight got delayed – you know in Kentucky if there's snow within a hundred miles, the whole goddamn place shuts down?"

She told him what she'd learned so far, continuing to describe her findings while he completed the final leg of his journey. He was pulling up behind her car when they finally hung up.

The sheriff met Booth as soon as he got out of his truck, with a grin that most definitely had not been present when the man had greeted Brennan.

"You think you could've taken a little longer there, Seel? Your doctor's put us all to shame and done just about everything for us. What the hell does she need you for, anyway?"

Booth smiled back at the man, clearly pleased to see him. "I'm just arm candy, Hal – if I didn't clean up so well, I'd a' been kicked to the curb years ago. Bones didn't tell me you were out here – I would've broken the sound barrier trying to get here if I'd known my case was in your hands."

Brennan joined the two men, noting that Sweets' interest had been diverted from his discussion with the deputies now that Booth had arrived.

Booth smiled at her, his eyes sparking on hers. Despite her fatigue and the chill in the air, she felt a familiar warmth at his presence.

"Hey, Bones," was all he said, but the sheriff looked from one to the other significantly.

"I'm just gonna check on my men – I'll meet you two out at the site."

It was too public for any kind of a real greeting – not that it would have been appropriate given the circumstances. They settled for taking a step closer.

"You look cold," he said immediately.

"And you look tired," she returned evenly. "Are you ready to see the scene?"

He was.

They found nothing further, however. The fact that the body had been placed there long after death was obvious, thus all but eliminating any possibility of finding further evidence on the scene. The crime scene team took tire casts and photographs, secured the area for any evidence of the person – or persons – who'd left the body, but there was very little Brennan could do before returning to the lab with the bones.

At seven o'clock, with the sky already dark and the temperature dropping, she finally announced that they were free to transport the remains. Sweets had succumbed to the cold, and was sitting in the car with a cup of coffee. Most of the other investigators were gone. Brennan's fingers had lost all feeling some time ago; her toes were similarly afflicted.

After a somewhat unexpected exchange with Booth, she agreed to forego the hotel for the night in favor of their own bed. He looked tired and listless, and she wondered briefly if she was in for an extended version of their disastrous car ride the other evening.

Once they were on their way, however, he seemed to relax. Brennan elaborated on her theory that Izzie Lincoln may have been poisoned. Snow began to fall again. On the Patrick Henry Highway, they passed a section of guardrail recently obliterated, slivers of glass and chunks of metal already half-buried in the snow that coated the landscape.

She was tired. So was Booth. After she told him about what she'd learned from Izzie's body, Brennan leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.

"You haven't asked me why TJ wasn't here," she finally said, eyes still closed.

There was a moment's silence. She opened her eyes to find Booth still focused on the road.

"I figured you'd tell me when you were ready," he said. He seemed calm enough, but she saw his fingers contract and release sporadically on the steering wheel.

"Are you okay? He didn't try anything, did he?" he asked. He glanced at her, appraising her silently. His fingers contracted on the wheel once more.

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Nothing happened." He thought of her dinner with TJ; his hand on her cheek, the clear desire in his eyes. Then looked at Booth, and found that she couldn't help but smile.

He was wearing a wool coat, the collar still turned up against the cold. It seemed strange to her that everything about him could be so… familiar, every inch of him something she knew intimately now, and yet his presence continued to have such a strong effect on her.

She inched closer to him in the seat. He looked surprised, but it didn't stop him from wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

"Can you drive this way?" she asked. She closed her eyes again. The truck smelled like leather and Booth's cologne.

He kissed her hair, feather light. "Yeah, Bones. I can drive this way."

"Wake me if you get tired?"

"You got it, babe," he agreed, though she knew he never would.

A second passed, then another. She felt herself drifting, lost in the feel of the truck speeding forward and the heaviness of her own body, the warmth of Booth's arm around her. Drifting…

She slept, and dreamed of children lost in a blizzard. One was Izzie Lincoln. TJ was there, also lost. Brennan felt certain she knew the way, but just when they'd almost gotten themselves untangled, the scene would change. Guatemala, Cape Town, DC. All with snow, all with lost children. Philip Taylor appeared and warned her to go back. He grew suddenly – eight feet tall, his canines sharpened and his eyes glowing red.

She woke with a start.

They were still driving, but sometime in the interim she'd migrated to her side of the truck. Booth glanced at her. Reached out, and took her hand.

"Just a dream, Bones," he said quietly. "We're almost there."

She nodded. Rubbed her eyes, trying to erase the images from the dream. She made a point of staying awake for the remainder of the drive.

By the time they returned to Brennan's apartment, it was after midnight. Snow was falling heavily now, the city unusually quiet. It was a very different scene from two nights previous, when she and Booth had been fighting the entire way up to her door. Now, Booth's arm was around her shoulders, her body leaning against his in the elevator. She was tired, but somehow her fatigue was doing little to dissipate the spark she felt as they approached the end of another day.

"We're sleeping in tomorrow, Bones," he announced as soon as the elevator door had closed.

"It's a weekday," she pointed out unnecessarily. "And I have remains waiting for me."

The elevator began its ascent. Booth pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck. Despite her fatigue, she felt herself warming to his touch. "Don't care, Bones. I know I should, but…" he nipped her earlobe lightly. She drew in a sharp breath, pressing herself against him. "…maybe not late, late. Just a little late?"

She snaked her arms past his wool coat, feeling the warmth of his body beneath. Another second and they would reach her floor; she tilted her head when his mouth became more urgent, bucking against him once more.

"I thought you were tired."

"Not that tired."

She tilted her face to his, tasted his lips as her heart sped and her body softened. His hands were in her hair, his tongue delving deep as he pressed her back against the elevator wall.

The door opened.

The door closed.

"We were supposed to get off," she told him, in between kisses and caresses and a growing sense of urgency.

"I'm trying, Bones. God knows I'm trying."

The door opened again. She stilled his hands, kissing him more softly this time.

"It's been two weeks since we've had an opportunity to go slowly," she told him. "Not in a shower, not after a fight…"

He smiled at her then – the real smile, the one she'd fallen in love with, against all odds. Brushed the hair back from her face, tipping his forehead against hers.

"Not in an elevator," he finished for her.

She nodded. "Not in an elevator."

They stepped into the corridor together, hands entwined.

And all hell broke loose.


	5. Chapter Four

_By the time they returned to Brennan's apartment, it was after midnight. Snow was falling heavily now, the city unusually quiet. It was a very different scene from two nights previous, when she and Booth had been fighting the entire way up to her door. Now, Booth's arm was around her shoulders, her body leaning against his in the elevator. She was tired, but somehow her fatigue was doing little to dissipate the spark she felt as they approached the end of another day._

_"We're sleeping in tomorrow, Bones," he announced as soon as the elevator door had closed._

_"It's a weekday," she pointed out unnecessarily. "And I have remains waiting for me."_

_The elevator began its ascent. Booth pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck. Despite her fatigue, she felt herself warming to his touch. "Don't care, Bones. I know I should, but…" he nipped her earlobe lightly. She drew in a sharp breath, pressing herself against him. "…maybe not late, late. Just a little late?"_

_She snaked her arms past his wool coat, feeling the warmth of his body beneath. Another second and they would reach her floor; she tilted her head when his mouth became more urgent, bucking against him once more._

_"I thought you were tired," she said breathlessly._

_"Not that tired," he returned._

_She tipped her face to his, tasted his lips as her heart sped and her body softened. His hands were in her hair, his tongue delving deep as he pressed her back against the elevator wall._

_The door opened._

_The door closed._

_"We were supposed to get off," she told him, in between kisses and caresses and a growing sense of urgency._

_"I'm trying, Bones. God knows I'm trying."_

_The door opened again. She stilled his hands, kissing him more softly this time._

_"It's been two weeks since we've had an opportunity to go slowly," she told him. "Not in a shower, not after a fight…"_

_He smiled at her then – the real smile, the one she'd fallen in love with, against all odds. Brushed the hair back from her face, tipping his forehead against hers._

_"Not in an elevator," he finished for her._

_She nodded. "Not in an elevator."_

_They stepped into the corridor together, hands entwined._

_And all hell broke loose._

They'd gone no more than two steps into the corridor before Booth's hand tightened in Brennan's. He stopped moving, pulling her backward when she attempted to continue.

"Hang on, Bones."

She turned to look at him, uncertain whether this was a game or simple paranoia. "Booth – "

He placed a finger to his lips to silence her, gesturing for her to stand behind him. Beyond the ever-present hum of any building in any city she'd ever visited, Brennan heard nothing. There was nothing out of place that she could see – nothing to indicate why Booth was suddenly on the alert. Fatigue sharpened her mood; all she wanted was one night of peace beside her partner. Why did it seem they had to fight for even that lately? She ignored his warning and pressed forward.

"Booth, I don't think – "

He pulled her back, more aggressively this time, until her body was flush with his.

"Damn it, Bones, just stay back," he growled, low in her ear. His tone and the intensity in his eyes were enough to convince her he wasn't merely being dramatic.

Her irritation vanished.

Fear returned in its place, strong enough to weaken her resolve and unsettle her stomach. She followed a half-pace behind him, already pulling the gun from her bag.

Halfway down the corridor, she realized what Booth had spotted:

Her apartment door was standing slightly ajar.

Her heart began beating erratically. Booth nodded backward, toward the wall on their left. "Stay there," he ordered.

She ignored him. They traveled another three steps before Booth halted once more. He turned, this time taking her by the shoulders and forcibly walking her backward, pressing her back against the wall.

"Stay," he repeated. He kept his eyes on hers until she nodded, her mouth a tight line.

"Fine," she whispered.

She watched him move forward, edging along the wall now with gun drawn. When he wasn't aware, she crept a few steps closer. At the door, he turned abruptly and caught her mid-creep.

Clearly not amused with her actions, he used hand-gestures to convey that she was to wait ten seconds, then follow behind. She did so, counting silently to herself as she stood just outside the door, back to the wall. Her heart drilled steadily against her ribs, a rush of adrenaline magnifying every sound. She'd only reached nine before she heard Booth call to her.

"It's clear, Bones. C'mon in."

Just inside the door, Booth was waiting for her. He took her hand as she stepped over the threshold, but she quickly shook it away at the sight that greeted her.

Chaos.

The apartment had been torn apart – stuffing from sofa cushions strewn in every direction, paintings slashed, some of her most prized artifacts shattered at her feet.

She stared at the apartment in disbelief, trying to order her thoughts. "You're certain whoever did this is gone?" she asked. Her voice was low, her fists clenched. She didn't turn to look at Booth, even when he lay a hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah, Bones – whoever it was, they're long gone now."

She knelt beside a bookshelf that had been pulled off the wall and now lay in pieces on the floor. Beneath, several tiny shards of broken glass caught the light. Brennan blinked back tears as she gently palmed a fragmented dorsal fin – the only thing remaining of the crystal dolphin her father had given her just three years earlier.

"Bones," Booth said from somewhere behind her. She didn't respond, too busy calculating damage, trying to get a grasp on what had happened.

"Temperance." This was said more softly, his voice directly behind her. She turned, grief turned to fury as tears of impotent rage filled her eyes.

"Who would do this?"

Booth shook his head. "I don't know."

He took her hand and pulled her closer, but she was in no mood for comfort. Instead, she turned and began surveying the rest of the apartment. The damage seemed to be confined primarily to the living room, though a lamp had been broken and the bedding shredded in her bedroom. Booth's beloved plasma TV had been ruined, an ugly tear slashed across the center of the screen.

Booth stared at it so mournfully that she was almost tempted to laugh.

"I get the books and the paintings," he said, "but why the hell'd they have to do the TV? That's just…un-American."

Though he was clearly trying to lighten the mood, she had the sense he wasn't completely joking.

"TVs can be replaced," she said, her eyes returning to the shattered crystal dolphin beneath the bookcase.

Booth sighed. The look he gave her had just enough sympathy to tempt her back to tears. Instead, she straightened resolutely and turned her back on him.

"We should call the police."

"Already done, Bones – they're on their way," he informed her.

It was the closest thing she'd been able to come to forming a plan of action. Lacking that, she felt completely at loose ends.

"I suppose I should begin with an inventory – try to determine if there's anything missing."

Booth didn't respond. It took her a minute or more of careful appraisal of the living room before she began to suspect that her partner's silence held some significance. She turned to find him seated on the arm of her destroyed sofa, watching her.

"What?"

He rolled his eyes. "You're not gonna like it."

Her lips tightened into a straight line, but her eyes remained steady on his.

"What?"

He hesitated, continuing to hold her gaze once he began. "Where's TJ?" he finally asked.

"Booth – " there was a warning in her tone that she'd neither anticipated nor intended. Booth's jaw tightened, frustration evident on his face.

"Look around here, Bones. This? This isn't some random burglary – this is personal. Do you see anything missing? And look at the stuff that got wrecked. He's here what, three days? And already we've been fighting non-stop, and now this. So, don't 'Booth' me. Where is he? And what the hell happened between you two?"

The truth was, she'd been thinking exactly the same thing – she didn't know why it was so hard to just admit that. Perhaps because she felt guilty for thinking it, she speculated. Hadn't they already accused TJ once of crimes he hadn't committed? He wasn't an unstable man – how often did he have to prove that, before she began to believe him.

"There are other cases I'm working on – other people who might be upset with me."

She thought suddenly of Oregon, and everything that had transpired there. The idea of going through something like that again – knowing that someone was watching, someone was filled with that degree of… desire, or contempt, or some bizarre combination of the two – was almost more than she could stand. As though reading her thoughts, Booth took a step toward her, his face softening.

"It's not the same, Bones," he said quietly.

"I don't know what you mean."

He came over and put his arms around her. This time, she didn't resist.

"Yeah, you do. This isn't the same thing. This is amateur hour, babe. We'll get him – whoever it was – by the end of the week. No sweat."

She lay her head on his shoulder, feeling his heart beat reassuringly against her own. "You don't know that."

He kissed her forehead, pushing her hair behind her ears in that way she always found so comforting. Forced her to look at him, and held her eye without a trace of self-doubt.

"Yeah, Bones, I do. We'll get him."

* * *

The police arrived just after one-thirty. The older of the two introduced himself as Detective Windham. He was significantly overweight, balding and brusque. His partner was Detective Anders – a man who didn't appear older than mid-twenties, with white-blonde hair and the pale features one typically associates with albinism. Neither of the men's appearance was particularly confidence-inspiring.

Once they'd gotten beyond the initial niceties, Detective Windham whistled softly through his teeth as he surveyed the damage.

"Wow… You sure pissed somebody off. Any idea who might have done this?"

Brennan raised her eyebrows at him, uncertain how to respond. "Isn't that why you're here?"

Windham shrugged a beefy shoulder. "Usually something like this happens, the victim has a pretty good idea who did it – and it's usually somebody they know. I mean… _know,_" he stressed the word suggestively, "If you know what I mean. You got a jilted lover mooning around DC somewhere?"

Brennan ignored the look Booth gave her, and shook her head. "No, nothing like that. I was thinking that it may be work-related."

The detective looked skeptical at the suggestion. "Didn't you say you work in a lab? Doesn't seem like that's the kind of work that'd inspire this kind of passion."

"She works at the Jeffersonian," Booth said gruffly, inserting himself into the conversation for the first time. Up to that point, he'd been standing off to the side – as though assessing how the officers were handling the scene.

Windham looked at him in surprise. "You the boyfriend?"

Booth nodded. "Special Agent Seeley Booth," he flipped open his wallet and flashed his badge. "FBI. Dr. Brennan here works with us on a lot of cases. Trust me, she inspires this kind of passion in perps everyday."

Detective Anders had been assessing the rest of the apartment up to this point, but now he seemed to come to attention at Booth's words.

"Hang on – Dr. Brennan. Temperance Brennan? You're the writer. The bone lady who worked on that serial killer case out west this summer."

Windham's manner changed abruptly; he appeared suddenly chastened. "Geez, dispatch didn't say anything – they just said some rich lab rat called in a B&E. They gave us the name, but we didn't connect the dots…"

"It's fine," Brennan reassured him. "I just want to do whatever I can to ensure we find whoever did this."

Anders nodded rapidly, taking out a pad of paper. "Yeah, of course. So, there haven't been any threats against you recently? Anybody who might be a little… y'know, more upset with you than usual?"

A second or two of silence followed, while Brennan considered the question. Booth was looking at her significantly, his eyebrows raised. The detectives looked at one another before directing their attention to Booth.

"What about you – got any ideas?" Anders asked. "Because, honestly… I mean, you know how this kind of thing goes. You go with your gut, and more often than not that's exactly how these cases get solved."

Brennan bristled. "More often than not, these cases get solved because of evidence – not guts. There's nothing to suggest – "

"There's plenty to suggest," Booth cut her off. "The guy's had a thing for you from the second he first saw you."

"What guy?" Windham asked immediately.

"TJ Wright," Booth answered, when Brennan remained steadfast in her silence. "He's a writer – from Oregon. They met over the summer."

"And he's in the area?" Anders asked.

"He's been shadowing her at the lab," Booth said. "Research for his next novel." The way he said this last part conveyed his skepticism very clearly.

Another silence fell, during which both detectives appeared to become increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, Windham broke the silence.

"Maybe we should just talk to you alone for a couple minutes, ma'am," he said to Brennan. She noticed that he'd all but turned his back on Booth; she could tell by that slow tic in Booth's mandible, that he'd noticed it as well.

"Whatever she has to say, she can say in front of me," Booth said tightly. "Right, Bones? It's fine."

Anders nodded, though he didn't appear completely convinced. "Okay. Well… What exactly was the nature of your relationship with this Wright guy when you met over the summer?"

"He was my student," Brennan responded. "I was teaching some writing courses at the University of Oregon."

Anders wrote something down, nodding as he did so. "Okay. And you say he appeared… interested in you, at that time."

Brennan shifted uncomfortably, glaring at Booth as she responded. "He implied that he was interested in more than a teacher-student relationship, yes. I made it clear that the feelings weren't reciprocated, and we dropped the matter."

"But he's here now," Windham picked up the questioning. "And he's just… what? Gotten over the itch?"

For the first time, Brennan dropped her gaze. She chewed her lip for a moment as she considered how to answer, before finally opting for the truth. "He has been slightly more… arduous in his attention, this time."

She felt Booth's eyes on her, but she didn't return his gaze.

"And how've you handled that?" Windham asked interestedly.

She swallowed hard. Glanced around her destroyed apartment, her eyes settling on another shattered artifact at the far wall.

"He made an overture the other evening – Monday night, at Café Nietsche."

"An overture?" Anders pressed.

Booth had become alarmingly still, his gaze fixed on her own. She met his eye.

"A pass," she finally admitted. "We'd gone out to dinner, and he asked me to return to his hotel with him. I declined, and told him I thought it would be better if he shadowed someone else for his research. I haven't spoken with him since." She turned to Booth to address him directly. "I'm sorry – I should have told you, but I knew you'd be angry with him. And since nothing happened…"

To her surprise, he merely smiled – the lopsided grin that typically meant she'd done something he liked. "It's all right, Bones," he said quietly. "Sounds like you handled it just fine."

"Unless he's the guy who trashed the place," Windham inserted rudely.

"Well, yeah," Booth nodded. "I guess you've got a point there."

The detectives spent a short amount of time going over the remainder of the apartment before they announced that a crime scene unit would come by in the morning to collect evidence. In the meantime, Brennan gathered a few things and then Booth drove her to the police station to file an official report.

The metro station was vast, and old, and virtually deserted at three a.m. Detective Windham led them along echoing corridors to the heart of the building, where his desk was situated directly opposite Anders'. He motioned for them to sit, and Brennan waited impatiently for his computer to wheeze to life.

"Sorry – we're low on the totem pole, not a lot of money for laptops or digital… anything, around here," Windham apologized.

Booth nodded. "Gotta love government jobs."

Brennan had no response for either of them. She sat in a stiff-backed chair watching a man with a bloody nose handcuffed to a bench at the far side of the squad room. He was the only person in the vicinity, having apparently been arrested and then left to his own devices. Anders followed her eyes with a smile.

"That's Billy McDonough. He gets in a fight over at a bar on K Street about once a week, ends up with a busted nose and a massive hangover. He's kind of like the station mascot."

"So you keep him handcuffed in your office?" she asked uncertainly.

Windham shrugged. "Only on Tuesdays," he said enigmatically.

She and Booth waited in silence for another minute or two before the computer was ready to go, and then Brennan answered the detective's questions regarding anything damaged or missing.

When Windham inquired as to where she'd been during the break-in, she hesitated.

"I was processing a crime scene," she finally told him. "It was several hours away – at Staunton Park. I wasn't planning to be home until tomorrow."

Anders looked up sharply at this, and both men fell noticeably silent. When Windham spoke again, the tension was clear in his voice.

"You're the one processing Staunton? Those cops' kids being dumped in the state parks?"

Brennan furrowed her brow, disliking the tone the man had taken. "There have been two – only two. 'All' implies – "

"Look, I don't care if it was two or two-hundred," Windham cut her off. "They're cops' kids, being dumped like sacks of garbage."

She didn't point out that the bodies were actually quite carefully arranged, far from being tossed out like garbage. The look on Booth's face suggested this point was moot.

"Where'd you hear about that?" Booth demanded.

Windham turned to him with an almost palpable fury. "Are you kidding? It's all over the place – word got out a couple hours ago."

Booth's jaw tensed. "This is supposed to stay quiet."

Anders scoffed at this, his pale face coloring brightly. "Yeah, good luck on that one. Every cop in the country's got a bead on this sick son of a bitch."

"Great, that's just what we need – a bunch of vigilante cops roughing up every jackass who's looked at a kid sideways, from Maine to LA."

"It's a hell of a lot more than your guys've done so far," Windham retorted, and Brennan was surprised at how angry he seemed. "How long ago'd these kids get snatched? And the Feds don't have so much as one goddamn lead."

Booth had the same look Brennan had seen just before he shot the musical clown's head three years ago. To her surprise, however, he simply took a deep breath and a strange sort of calm came over him.

"It's a loaded case," he said quietly, looking directly at Windham. "A lot of people are hurting over this – I just want to make sure the family finds out the right way, all right? Right now, that's my first priority. And then, I'll turn this case inside out to get this asshole off the street. I've got a son – trust me, I know what people are thinking, how scared they are."

Windham seemed mollified by this, his tension fading slightly. "I'll see what I can do to keep things quiet around here, but it's in the wind now. There's not much anybody can do about it."

Booth nodded thoughtfully, appearing sobered by the thought. He excused himself briefly while Brennan finished making her report, and she saw him take out his cell phone and go into an empty office down the hall. The fact that he was making calls at three-thirty in the morning didn't strike her as an indicator of good things to come.

The officers seemed to share her view, Windham shaking his head as he watched Booth's conversation.

"Wouldn't want to be in your boyfriend's shoes right now, that's for damned sure."

Anders nodded his agreement. Brennan was about to ask them what they meant by this, but was distracted by more questions and more paperwork. The comment had a disquieting effect on her, however, and she found herself returning to it frequently as the night wore on.

* * *

After the last of the paperwork was filed and she and Booth were back in the truck, Booth turned to her as they were pulling away from the station.

"So, Bones – looks like you're gonna have to slum it at my place tonight. No big-screen TV, no separate bathrooms…"

The city was asleep now, only a few cars on the highway and the deep dark of late night settled over everything. The phrase 'always darkest before the dawn' came into her head, and she glanced at the time. It was nearly four o'clock. She could tell that Booth was exhausted, but trying hard to keep things light. She closed her eyes, leaning back against the seat.

"I like your apartment."

"Well sure, what's not to love?" he said sarcastically. "Leaky pipes, crappy wiring, just enough room to trip over each other every time we turn around…"

"It smells like you," she murmured, almost to herself.

"And that's a good thing?" He sounded half-surprised, half-amused.

She sat up and opened her eyes, looking at him fully. It still baffled her how he didn't _know. _He was Seeley Booth, shouldn't he understand this? She was horrible at all of it – the communication, the empathy, the ability to read people – but this was supposed to be his area of expertise. When had he stopped being able to read her?

"I love the way you smell," she finally admitted, lacking the energy for anything more eloquent. "I love your apartment, because it smells like you. Because it was my refuge on nights when I couldn't face being alone. Because you fed me ice cream at your table and we went over cases and ate Wong Foos until dawn more nights than I can remember. Because you live there, and Parker lives there."

She closed her eyes once more. "I love your apartment," she repeated lamely.

She felt his arm reach around her shoulders, pulling her closer on the seat.

"Well, I love you, Bones. I don't know how much I can say about my apartment," he joked, his fingers twining lightly in her hair. "But God, I'm crazy about you."

Booth haphazardly made the bed with fresh sheets when they got to his place, and they were both asleep before their heads hit their proverbial pillows. Brennan slept soundly in his arms, lacking the energy to ponder who her intruder might have been or even play host to any bad dreams.

She merely slept.

At some point, somewhere far off in her consciousness, she heard the phone ring. Heard Booth's voice, his words hushed and indistinct, and she told herself that she should wake up.

She _had _to wake up.

And yet, she found she couldn't quite bring herself to open her eyes.

Sometime later – a few minutes, or perhaps as much as an hour – she felt the bed dip slightly as Booth climbed back in beside her. She allowed herself to sink back into sleep.

When she awoke the next time, it was to pure sensation: Booth's lips caressing her throat, her clavicle, behind her ears, as his hands moved languidly over her breasts, her stomach, lingering for a moment to press against her center.

She yawned and stretched lazily, her body beginning to hum at Booth's attention. He ran his knuckles lightly over her breast, pressing his knee between her legs at the same time, and the hum intensified.

"Mmm…" She stretched again, opening her eyes to watch his progress. "Morning."

"Sorry, Bones," he looked up at her, his eyes crinkling the way they did when he felt he was being amusing. "Did I wake you?"

She gasped as he moved from her collarbone to her breast, his teeth scraping lightly across her nipple.

"That's all right." She ran a hand through his hair, moaning softly when he took her breast in his mouth. "I love it when you wake me like this."

He eased himself up to lie beside her, his knuckles grazing her inner thigh as his mouth continued to explore her neck. His hair was still wet from a shower. When he kissed her, he tasted of coffee and toothpaste.

"How long have you been up?"

"A while." He pushed her t-shirt over her head, tossing it to the floor carelessly. His body was hard, his eyebrows raised as he fixed her with a suggestive smile. "Too long."

Though the blinds were closed, it was clear from the scant light filtering through that it was still early. While Booth continued his ministrations, she looked around until she spotted his alarm clock.

"I thought we were sleeping in," she said in surprise. "It's barely seven o'clock." She tried to refrain from doing the math, but found she couldn't help herself: Three hours of sleep for her, and apparently even less than that for Booth. It wouldn't be a good day.

Though it was certainly starting well. As she lay on her back, Booth positioned himself above her and began kissing a maddeningly slow trail down her sternum.

"I know – sorry, Bones. I've gotta get into the office. I thought maybe before we got going…"

He settled his hands on either side of her head, lowering himself as he took an earlobe between his teeth and nipped lightly.

"You mind?" he asked, his voice a low growl in her ear.

She could feel his length pressed against her stomach, his biceps straining as he held himself in mid-air. She loved him like this: the pure masculinity of his body, the confidence of his touch, the degree to which he knew her. He didn't wait for her decision; merely continued working his way from one so-called 'sweet spot' to the next.

"I don't mind," she responded, the words coming out more gasp than intelligible sentiment.

She pressed her hips up, pushing his boxer shorts down over his toned gluteal muscles as she attempted to expedite the process. He grinned at her, then reached down with one hand and casually pulled his shorts back up.

"Patience, baby. You said last night you wanted it slow…"

She fought his hands and managed to successfully wrangle his shorts down once more, this time to his thighs.

"That was when we had several hours before we needed to be back at work – not five minutes."

He smiled at her, his brown eyes molten and a determined spark in his gaze. "Unh uh, Bones. You wanted slow – you're getting slow."

She reached between them and found his shaft, rubbing her thumb over the head and then using the leaking seminal fluid to lubricate as she began to stroke him. Felt him surge at her touch before he groaned and pulled away from her.

"You're a pain in the ass – you know that, right?"

"I just know what I want."

"And now, Bones?" he asked, the words ground out as she pressed her hips up closer. "What do you want now?"

She wriggled beneath him, pressing him to her entrance. Let the moment slow for a moment, savoring the ache and the spark between them.

"You," she said finally, their eyes locked. "I want you."

Afterward, she lay in his arms for only a few moments before her mind wandered back to the events of the previous evening. Booth shifted so that they were lying side by side, his eyes studying her as he traced the contours of her face with an index finger.

"You thinking about the break-in?" he asked her.

She nodded, but remained silent. Booth ran his finger over her cheekbone, her forehead, the shell of her ear. Waiting her out, as he often did when she was particularly pensive.

"Do you really think we'll catch them quickly?"

"I do," he answered immediately, without hesitation. She smiled slightly at his confidence, but the smile vanished at her next thought.

"I know that physically, I'm no different now than I was before…" she swallowed, trying to keep her voice even. "Before Oregon. I have some residual pain in my ankle, but otherwise there's no difference. I'm exactly the same person I was before that night on the mountain."

His eyes wavered at mention of that night, just for a moment, before he refocused. "But you feel different," he guessed.

She nodded once more, forcing a deep breath. "I don't want to live that way again." Her voice was low, a husky whisper. It wasn't an admission she took lightly. "I don't think I can live that way again."

He kissed the tip of her nose. Her forehead. Her chin, and both cheeks. "This isn't the same, Bones. I called Werner and gave him the heads up on all this – he's gonna look into it. There are security tapes I can pull from Manny this afternoon, and I called Cam and left a message with her giving her a rundown on what happened."

"That's who you were calling at three-thirty this morning?"

He nodded. His words were having the desired effect – Brennan felt herself begin to relax, her fear over the break-in gradually fading. There were few people she trusted in the world, but Booth was definitely one of them. If he had a plan that he said would work, she believed him.

As her anxiety over the previous evening diminished, she found herself returning to the conversation with Windham in the police station.

"Detective Windham said he would hate to be wearing your shoes right now," she told him. She studied his face as he absorbed these words – a flicker of annoyance followed by what she thought might be anxiety, before that maddening mask of indifference fell.

"_In_ my shoes right now, Bones. Not wearing them."

She ignored the correction. Propped herself up on one elbow, continuing to study him. "What did he mean by that?"

His eyes skated from hers. He shrugged. Scratched the back of his head.

And lied.

"How should I know, Bones? Metro cops are all nuts – nobody I know can ever figure 'em out."

It was the fact that he'd lied just moments after she'd shared her own fears with him that bothered her the most –mere seconds after she'd told him things that she would never admit to another living soul. Fighting a combination of hurt and anger, she nevertheless stayed where she was. Pressed him further.

"You must have some idea. Was he talking about the case?"

"I don't know, Bones." An impatient edge crept into his tone, though the look in her eye apparently spurred him to elaborate rather than dismiss the question outright. "It's a big case – a lot's riding on it, a lot of people are gonna be watching how it plays out. That's probably what he was talking about."

"Meaning they'll be watching you?"

He took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. Though they were still lying side by side, she could feel the change in his body – the tension in his shoulders, the inaccessibility of his gaze.

"Yeah, I guess so." He looked down, seeming to have some internal debate before his eyes found hers. "Werner called this morning – early. He wants to see me in his office this afternoon. I think that's why."

"Because people will be watching you?"

He flipped onto his back with a sigh. At first, she thought she'd said the wrong thing – ruined a moment when he was actually opening up to her, but she was relieved when he continued.

"I think he's gonna give me lead on the case." This said quietly, his fist pressed to his forehead and his eyes on the ceiling.

"Is that a good thing?"

He laughed – a harsh, abrupt sound that he quickly stilled. Brennan remained where she'd been: lying on her side, watching the conflict play out on Booth's face. After a moment or two, he sighed and rolled back over to look at her.

"If I don't screw it up then, yeah, Bones… It could be a good thing. It could be a very good thing."

She smiled at him confidently. "You won't screw it up. You're very good at your job."

This time, his laugh was warmer. Richer. Boothier. "Well then, I guess that's settled. I won't screw it up."

A few moments passed in silence before she began to get restless, her thoughts returning to the victims' bodies awaiting her attention at the Jeffersonian.

"We should go," she finally said. "I need to be at the lab – and you said you needed to get to work, didn't you?"

To her surprise, Booth didn't move. "Just a couple more minutes – okay, Bones?" He sighed, an openness in his eyes that she'd been missing in their relationship of late. "I just… This, right here? This is where I want to be right now, y'know? Once we leave here – " he took a breath.

She ran her hand over his forehead, attempting to smooth out the worry lines that had formed there.

"After we leave here, our lives are gonna be about missing kids and broken-hearted parents and angry cops out for revenge." He exhaled deeply. "I just have a feeling it'll be a while before we can do this again. So…" Another hard swallow, his face more fatigued than she'd seen it in some time. "Just for now, can we stay here? Just another couple minutes."

She nodded, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Moved by both his presence and his honesty. "We can stay here as long as you want."

He smiled at her, that sadness still present in his dark eyes. "Thanks, Bones. Just another couple minutes."

* * *

It was just just after nine o'clock when they finally got to the Jeffersonian that morning, Booth insisting on escorting her all the way into the lab to ensure that everything was safe. From the time she'd woken up that morning, Brennan had felt as though there was something she was forgetting, but she couldn't quite figure out what that something was. Walking into the lab did nothing to jog her memory – if anything, it only made it more muddled.

They'd barely made it through the door before Angela descended on her, Hodgins and Cam close behind.

"Oh my god – okay, what the hell happened?"

Brennan looked at her cluelessly, looking to Booth for some hint as to what she might be referring to.

"With what?"

"With what?" Angela very nearly shouted. "Booth leaves some weird message on Cam's voicemail in the middle of the night saying somebody trashed your place and you're at the police station. And then you're like five hours later than usual getting here – "

"Ange, I'm sorry," Brennan said uncertainly, alarmed at how frantic her friend seemed. "I'm fine. I assumed that since Booth had left a message, you'd know I would be slightly later than usual."

"Well, we didn't know!" This time, the artist really was shouting, her eyes filling with tears.

Brennan looked to the others for some explanation.

"Sorry, Dr. B," Hodgins apologized. "We tried to tell her."

Angela brushed her tears away and took a breath, taking a moment to get herself back under control.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm a little over the top about this whole thing. But seriously? If someone's trying to kill you again, I'm…" she seemed to have no words left. A second or two passed before she finally shook her head, tears still shining in her eyes. "Is someone trying to kill you again?"

Brennan looked at Booth again, before she feigned a confidence she definitely did not feel. "No one's trying to kill me. I'm okay, Ange. I'm sorry I worried you."

While Brennan continued to try and reassure her friend, she saw Cam signal to Booth.

"Seeley – can I see you for a minute?"

He nodded and excused himself, leaving Brennan to talk Angela out of her worry before finally – blessedly – returning to her bones.

The remains of the skeleton from Staunton State Park had been delivered to the Jeffersonian earlier that morning. Now, just as Izzie Lincoln's small body had been two days earlier, the bones were securely boxed and waiting for her. As she slowly withdrew the contents, bone by bone, the rest of the world receded – her own problems seemed insignificant by comparison. This had nothing to do with her apartment or her relationship with Booth, nothing to do with TJ or Oregon or anything that had transpired over the summer.

This had to do with the victim.

The Lincoln skeleton remained on display on an adjacent table. Brennan carefully began inventorying and placing the bones of the second victim in their appropriate positions, so consumed with her task that she failed to notice when Booth joined her.

"Bones."

The way he said it suggested he'd been trying to get her attention for some time. She looked up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear impatiently.

"What, Booth?"

He smiled at her – the condescending smile that suggested he was amused by her impatience. "I just wanted to let you know I'm headed back to the Hoover."

"All right. I'll talk to you later." With some effort, she managed to take a step away from the case to focus on her partner for a moment. "Good luck with your meeting."

"Thanks. I'm sure it'll be fine."

She waited for him to go, but he seemed reluctant. Glancing back at the bones for just a moment, she turned back to him once more.

"Is there something else?"

He hesitated. "Yeah, actually. Listen, if TJ comes around today, I want you to call me – I don't care what his excuse is, how fast he says he's stopping by. I don't want you alone with him, but I want you to keep him here. Okay?"

"What do you want me to do, handcuff him?"

"I don't care what you do, all right, Bones?" He took a breath, lowering his voice as he pulled her away from the bones and the others working around them. "Just do what I ask for once, would you? Don't ask a lot of questions, just… Call me if he shows up."

"You're too busy to be worrying about this right now."

"Let me worry about what I'm too busy to be worrying about – "

"That doesn't even make sense."

He rolled his eyes, growling in frustration as he let her go and walked away. He made it all the way across the platform, cooling himself down, before he walked back to her.

"Temperance, just call me, okay?" He glanced across the platform, where Cam and the others were obviously trying to pretend they hadn't been listening to this entire exchange.

"Camille – if our boy walks through that door, I want a call. If Bones doesn't do it, I expect you to. But I want that call."

Brennan noted with frustration that Cam didn't even attempt to argue the point. "Don't worry – you'll get it."

Before Brennan could continue fighting, he pulled her close and kissed her in full view of the rest of the lab.

"I've gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

* * *

Once Booth was gone, it wasn't difficult to return her full attention to the case at hand. The lab was full, humming with activity and an intensity that she found comforting. By eleven, the bones of the second victim had been inventoried and successfully placed. Like Izzie Lincoln's remains, they were almost entirely intact – right down to the dentition and small bones of the hands and feet.

At just after two, with Booth returned and he and the others gathered around the body, she was ready to give a positive identification.

"He fractured his right fibula and it never healed properly – which is consistent with the boy in the Missing Persons poster," she said, glancing at a manila folder with the boy's picture paper-clipped to the front page. Strictly speaking, the glance was unnecessary – for the past three hours, she'd looked at little else. She knew its contents backward and forward, by now.

"His name was Arnold Billings. Eleven years old when he went missing thirteen months ago from Plainfield, Vermont."

Unlike Izzie Lincoln, it seemed that Arnold had been something of a daredevil.

"Stress fracture of the distal radius at six years old," she noted, reading from the file. She checked the wrist; sure enough, a pale white scar was still visible in the bone. She referred to the file once more. "Broken patella at age nine."

"Tough little guy," Angela said quietly. Booth snapped his gum, shifted slightly, his eyes never leaving the small body on the table.

The broken patella was an injury that must have been very painful. She pictured Parker skateboarding, as she'd seen him do numerous times by now. Arnold had been an active boy – a bit on the wild side, based on the nature and severity of his injuries. A boy who should still be out in the world, doing tricks on his bicycle or getting into trouble around his hometown.

A boy who should not be lying here.

She took a breath and steadied herself, aware that the others were watching her.

"This is him – the bone markers are distinct enough to provide a near-positive identification." She turned to address Mr. Nigel-Murray, who was standing off to the side. "I've noted several anomalies consistent with the first victim that we'll need to investigate more thoroughly."

At the information, the others became more attentive.

"What kind of anomalies?" Booth asked.

She pointed to the right clavicle. "A bone dimple – similar in size and shape to the one on the first victim. This one is more shallow, however, and the fact that death happened more recently means the pattern is less degraded, and thus more conducive to examination."

"Examination for what, Dr. Brennan?" Cam asked, clearly intrigued.

"I missed it before," she said reluctantly. "In the first victim, I thought it was simply a flaw to the bone itself – perhaps a genetic abnormality."

"But it's not," Hodgins said.

"So what the hell is it?" Booth pressed.

"Do you remember the case a few years ago – the mummified corpse in the club wall?"

The others looked mystified, but Booth took a step closer. "You're saying this is from the killer? This is some clue we can use to identify him?"

"Wait – sorry, rewind," Cam interrupted. "I don't remember a mummified corpse in a club wall."

"It was before your time," Booth informed her. "There were two vics, and a mark on the bones that we traced back to the club owner's cane." He turned back to Brennan. "So you're saying this is the same kind of deal?"

She nodded. "I believe so. Ange, I'd like you to make a mold of the area. Photograph what you find, and then magnify it as much as possible. Try to decipher whatever the imprint is, and determine what might have made the mark."

"I'll get right on it."

"You mentioned multiple anomalies," Mr. Nigel-Murray pressed.

She nodded. "The teeth. Both victims have chipped incisors."

"The tox screen came back negative," Cam informed her at the news, which made Brennan frown.

"But with time of death over three years ago, there's a good chance any traces would be gone," Cam continued. "There wasn't a lot of soft tissue to work with."

Brennan nodded, her eyes fixed on the Lincoln remains. She had been so sure the cause of death had been poisoning – or as sure as one could be with no real proof, at least. The idea that she'd been 'going with her gut' on the theory was not lost on her.

"We can run another tox screen on the Billings remains, to determine if there might be something present there. I can still find no discernible cause of death for either victim." She shook her head. "It has to be poisoning – nothing else makes sense. What about soil samples?" she asked Hodgins.

He handed her a folder, which she opened promptly and began interpreting the graphs and series of numbers.

"High phosphorous levels," she noted.

"Very high," Hodgins confirmed.

"And with pH levels like this, it's unlikely insect activity would have been significant."

"Are you kidding?" he asked. "Only the toughest critters on the planet could've survived that kind of acidity. Which means the decomp we're seeing is almost completely from soil degradation and time."

"How much time?"

"Conservatively, I'd say four years for the first victim. At least a year, possibly longer for the second."

"They'd only been gone that long," Booth said impatiently.

"So, they were killed almost immediately after being taken."

Booth's jaw tightened at the words – or, more likely, the speaker of those words. Sweets entered the conversation – and the platform – without invitation, seemingly picking up exactly where they'd left off.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sweets?"

He looked at Booth and then at Brennan. For a moment he appeared hurt, and Brennan felt badly.

"Booth just means we weren't expecting you," she clarified.

"I know what Agent Booth means," Sweets assured her. "But thanks, all the same. I'm here because I'm supposed to be evaluating you, which is fairly difficult when you guys ditch me every chance you get."

"I didn't ditch you," Booth said shortly. "I spent all morning with you following me around the Hoover asking me stupid questions about how I feel about my job. Is it my fault I got the call to come here while you were talking to somebody else?"

"Technically, yes, since you paid that someone else to distract me until you could leave the building."

Brennan raised an eyebrow at him, and Booth grinned impishly. Shrugged a broad shoulder. "Sorry, Sweets. I'll try to play nicer next time."

Before Sweets could respond one way or another, Booth nodded back toward the second victim. "So – as long as you're here, how about making yourself useful. That thing you said before about them being killed right after they were taken. You think that's what happened to Izzie?"

Sweets looked at him strangely for a moment. "Izzie?" he repeated.

Booth's cheeks flamed red enough for even Brennan to notice. He looked at the ground for a moment, as though struggling to regain his composure. "The victim. Izzie Lincoln."

There was a moment of silence, Sweets studying Booth as though he was seeing something significant. Finally, the psychologist cleared his throat.

"Yeah, well… I have a theory about the killer, if you'd like to hear it."

Brennan started to object on the grounds that they had only two victims, neither of whom had any clear cause of death. Booth held up his hand, signaling for her to let Sweets speak. She remained reluctantly silent.

"It's pretty clear to me based on the fact that the victims were both children of police officers, that the crimes have more to do with the parents than the kids. I think as you delve deeper, you'll find that neither of the victims suffered before their deaths. In all likelihood, they were killed quickly and painlessly, and died almost immediately after they were taken."

"There is no sign of abuse to either of the bodies," Brennan conceded.

Sweets nodded, as though he'd expected as much. "I also don't believe whoever kidnapped and killed these children is the one bringing them forward now."

"So, what, this is just a good Samaritan who happened to stumble on some nut job's dumpsite?" Booth asked sarcastically.

"Not at all. On the contrary, this person is closely tied to the initial murders – and the cause behind them."

"The cause?" Angela prompted. "What, like women's suffrage or save the whales? What kind of cause makes you kill kids?"

Sweets shook his head. "I'm not sure, exactly – obviously, it's an extreme group of some kind. One violently opposed to law enforcement."

"So, these kids dying – the way we're finding them now, this is all just a message some crazy Unabomber is sending?" Booth's voice was rising. "Some left-wing militia group is out there snatching cop's kids to… what, teach us a fuckin' lesson?"

Brennan looked at him in surprise, noting his clenched fists and tensed shoulders, the barely contained rage in his voice. She gave him the 'Are you all right?' look he always gave her at dinners with Max, and he took a breath. Seemed to calm down, if only marginally.

"So, this whole thing isn't about the kids, it's about the cops," Booth summarized, his voice quieter now.

Sweets nodded. "Precisely. Or – well, kind of." He hesitated. "Well – okay, not really. It's mostly about the guys behind it."

"And how do we find out what guys are behind it?"

Sweets eyed the bodies on the two tables. "I think if you look closely, you'll find a calling card. Somehow or other, they'll tell you who they are. It does them no good if we don't know why they're doing this. And…" he hesitated. Booth sighed, as though in response to something Sweets had yet to speak aloud.

"What?" Brennan asked.

Booth looked at her, his eyes dark with regret. "They're not done."

Sweets nodded. "I don't believe so, no. There will be more bodies recovered in the coming days, and then…"

Booth's mouth tightened. Cam looked at the ground, as Angela wrapped her arms around her stomach and Hodgins gently rubbed the small of her back. Brennan swallowed back an indefinable fear settled at the pit of her stomach, heavy as lead. She looked at Booth, then at Sweets.

"Then what?" she pressed, not certain she really wanted the answer.

"Then, it gets worse," Sweets finally completed his thought. "Whatever statement they were trying to make has been in the works for a long time – and if it starts by murdering children, I can't imagine the big finish will be any less sensational than that."

Her throat felt dry. She stepped back to the table where the second victim's bones lay, and began studying them carefully.

"What are you going to do?" Sweets asked.

She looked at him as though he was somewhat stupid. "I'm going to determine cause of death. Identify the killer."

Hodgins nodded, taking a deep breath. "Right. Yeah – okay. Let's get to work, Dr. B."

And with that, the lab came to life once more. Everyone who'd been struck silent by Sweets's words seemed to come to themselves once more. There was a killer, and there were bones.

What more did they need?

Once the meeting was through and she had a clear goal in mind, Brennan plunged back into her work. She was almost back to her office before she realized that Booth was following her. At the realization, she slowed and waited for him to catch up.

"I still have no tangible evidence, but I can't seem to shake the theory that somehow poisoning is the most likely cause of death in both cases," she told him, moving quickly now. There was a case she thought she remembered in one of her old medical books…

"Listen, the uh – hey, Bones," Booth snapped his fingers, stopping her mid-step with a hand on her arm. "Right here, just for a second."

With serious effort, she managed to refocus her attention on her partner. "I'm sorry, I just have a theory…" She shook her head. "I'm sorry. Were you asking a question?"

"Yeah – " he shook his head, the implication clearly being that she was hopeless. "Any word from TJ?"

She rolled her eyes, but Booth seemed utterly unapologetic. After a second-long standoff, she gave in. "Nothing. But Detective Windham left a message for me – the crime scene unit went in and finished everything, so I can go back to my apartment anytime."

"You'll need new locks."

"The building superintendent's already taken care of it."

"The place is trashed, though – we can crash at my place again tonight, then I'll help you get everything back together this weekend."

It was actually what she'd been hoping he would say, though she hadn't wanted to ask. The idea of going back to her apartment still left her somewhat unsettled.

"That's probably the most logical plan," she agreed. "Thank you."

He shrugged. "Don't mention it, Bones. It's what I'm here for."

After a moment, she remembered their conversation that morning. "Did you have your meeting with Werner?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I did."

"And?" she prompted, when he offered no further information. "Did it go all right?"

"I'm not sure yet. I mean – he gave me lead on the case, which…" he shook his head. "I don't know what that's gonna mean, yet. It depends on how the case goes."

He began walking again, leading her into her office and closing the door behind them. Once they were alone, he turned and faced her.

"I'll be busy, 'til this thing is solved. I mean – you know, late hours."

She looked at him uncertainly. "But you always work late hours. We both do."

"Yeah, I know. But later this time, maybe. There's a lot riding on this." He hesitated. She had the sense there was something more he wanted to say, but was holding back. Finally, he sighed. "You know I love you, right?"

"I know."

He took a step toward her, running the back of his hand along her cheek. "I mean – I really love you, Bones. I love my job, I love hockey, I really love your mac n' cheese… But, I _love _you. Like… Crazy, stars in my eyes, wanna spend the rest of my life fighting with you, love you." He swallowed hard, and she had a strange feeling that he was risking something by saying the words aloud. "I just… Sometimes, I know I don't say it the right way, and I don't give you the things you should have. But you're everything to me. You know?"

The words were said with such intensity that Brennan wasn't certain how to respond. She caught his hand as it brushed back her hair, and kissed his palm.

"I know, Seeley. I know that."

He nodded, as though something had been resolved with the words. "Good. Okay." He took a breath, looking around the office. "So, I should get back. I've got a friend on the Montpelier PD who knows the Billings family – he's gonna give them the news, so I won't be going out there yet. But I may need to make the trip in the next few days, depending on what we turn up."

"All right."

"And…" He hesitated again, rolling his eyes. So, there was definitely something he was building up to. "I have a press conference – I mean, you know. This afternoon."

"You have a press conference?"

Another nod, another roll of the eyes. He was blushing slightly. "Yeah. I've never actually, you know, done one before. But Werner wants me to be out front on this – "

"But you hate being out front," she interrupted. "You don't like public speaking. You said it makes you perspire."

"I said it makes me break out in a cold sweat," he interpreted. "It doesn't matter, it's gotta be done. If I want to…" He shook his head. Shrugged. "It doesn't matter, okay? I just wanted you to know, so if you guys happen to turn on the news or something and you see me pass out on live TV, you'll know why."

She considered this. It seemed as though some kind of advice was in order – that perhaps that was why he was telling her. She took his hand. "You shouldn't picture people naked."

At the words, he only looked confused.

"Someone told me I should once," she elaborated, "before, when I was preparing to speak at a conference. It was a terrible idea – once I started, it was all I could do. And some of the presenters were in very poor physical condition, so picturing them naked was not only counterproductive but fairly unpleasant."

He laughed out loud, then pulled her to him and kissed her soundly. "Okay, I'll remember that. How about if I just picture you naked?"

She smiled, warming to the idea. "I don't know how effective it will be in helping you overcome your public speaking phobia, but it would make me feel good."

"Well," he rumbled in her ear, "You know how much I love making you feel good, Bones. So… How about I stop by later tonight, see how the squints are coming along. Maybe we can grab some dinner – or I'll just buy you some pie at the Diner?"

She went completely still in his arms, the intimacy of the moment completely lost. The niggling sensation she'd had all day that she'd forgotten something came back full force, and she realized immediately what it was. Squirming out of his arms in horror, she looked at the clock.

Ten minutes to three.

"Shit!" she said loudly, catapulting herself across the room to her purse as she tossed off her lab coat.

Booth stared at her as though she'd gone mad.

"Uh – problem, Bones?"

She pulled out her ponytail as she was putting on her jacket. "The thing I said I thought I was forgetting this morning," she said over her shoulder, as she searched frantically through her desk for her car keys.

"You remembered?" he asked dryly.

She nodded. Clenched her car keys in one hand and her purse in the other, racing out the door.

"Parker. I'm supposed to meet Parker at his school at three."

Booth looked completely baffled at this revelation, but she had no time to stop and explain. He simply stood where he was, watching her race down the corridor with a perplexed look on his face.

"Well," she heard him call after her. "Tell my kid I say hi. And watch my goddamn press conference!"

* * *

Somehow, she managed to reach the school at just a few minutes past three, despite heavy traffic and a slew of families in minivans that she'd had to thread her way through. While she'd had little opportunity to think about their meeting since Parker had called the day before – mostly because she'd promptly forgotten it, between the unfolding case and the break-in at her apartment – now that she did remember, it was the only thing she thought about during the frantic race to his school. By the time she reached him, she had to admit to a certain degree of trepidation about the whole afternoon.

At the curb outside the school, Parker approached her car but was careful to stay a fair distance from the passenger's side door. He was wearing a blue and red ski cap and a blue parka, the backpack Booth had picked out at the beginning of the school year on his back. He smiled when she rolled down the window and leaned across the seat to speak with him.

"Hey, Bones!"

She glanced behind her, at the long line of parents also waiting to pick up their children.

"Hi, Parker." She hesitated, since he didn't appear to be preparing to get in. "Are you ready?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but – " He bit his lip, hesitating before he said with what seemed just a trace of embarrassment, "I just need you to say the password."

She suppressed a smile. "Of course. Um – " she hesitated, though only for a moment. "Paladin?"

His face brightened. He reached for the door handle, then stopped again. "Could you um – "

This time, she couldn't help but smile as she spelled out the word. "P-A-L-A-D-I-N."

He breathed a sigh of relief, getting into the car immediately.

"Sorry, Bones – Dad's pretty strict about his passwords. And one of the kids at school said he saw a movie where this guy got his face ripped off and they put it on this other guy so everybody thought he was the first guy and…" He took a breath.

Brennan laughed slightly, pulling away from the curb at a crawl. "You can't be too careful," she said. "I'm sure your father would be very pleased with how seriously you take his advice."

She thought suddenly of the small bodies lying side by side at the lab, and of Sweets's prediction that soon there would be more. Thought of Parker, taken by someone and never seen again, and felt a cold, sharp fear take hold. She turned to him seriously.

"Booth's right, though – he's seen a lot. He's just trying to keep you safe. It's good to listen to him."

He nodded. "I know. Mom says that's the problem with working for the FBI. Dad knows all the bad stuff that happens in the world, and sometimes it makes it harder to remember all the good stuff."

Brennan considered this, thinking of all the things both she and Booth had seen over the years. There was little question that such experiences would color one's perception of the world and how to raise a child in it.

Parker fell silent, seemingly deep in thought, and for a few minutes they drove without conversation. Booth had told her once that often with Parker, the best way to get him to talk about whatever was bothering him was to just stay quiet and refrain from asking him any questions. Which seemed counterintuitive, but interestingly enough, it was the same tactic she'd found most effective in getting Booth to open up.

Parker looked out the window, kicking his heels against the seat idly. Finally, he sighed.

"Is Dad still mad about this weekend?"

She'd managed to get through the traffic surrounding the school and they were on their way back to the highway, the day cold and clear outside. Brennan looked at him in surprise.

"Mad? I don't think he was – he said you two had a very nice time."

Parker made a face. "Most of the time, sure. But it didn't start out so good, 'cause… you know, I made him go back to his old house."

She made an effort to keep her face impassive as she considered this information. Back to what old house? Parker obviously thought Booth had already shared this with her, the way he was speaking. She didn't say anything, uncertain of how to proceed. If Booth hadn't told her, it clearly wasn't something he was comfortable with her knowing.

"Did he say anything?" Parker prompted. "Mom said he doesn't like to talk about that stuff, but I just thought… All my friends were going on trips to see where their moms and dads grew up. I didn't think it'd be a big deal."

"I don't think he was mad," Brennan said finally. She decided suddenly that it wasn't important whether Booth had told her or not – what was important was that Parker was worried about something that clearly had more to do with his father than with him, and nothing at all to do with her. Reassuring Parker was obviously the most significant piece of the equation. "Perhaps it just brought up some memories he'd forgotten."

Parker nodded, considering this. With his eyes on the traffic outside and a pensive expression beyond his years on his face, he reminded Brennan of Booth more than ever.

"I should've listened to Mom. I just thought maybe if he went back there, he'd remember some of the good stuff from being a kid. I didn't think it'd really bother him so much."

They were approaching the diner. Brennan began scanning for parking, all the while trying to think of the appropriate words to set the boy's mind at ease. True to form, she could think of nothing. Finally, she said,

"Sometimes, I think your father just needs to think things through. So, he gets quiet – and it may seem like he's angry, but he's actually just working things out."

Parker seemed to think about this for a while. "I think maybe I do that too, sometimes," he finally said. "And Mom thinks I'm mad or whatever, but really I've just gotta get things right in my head."

She found a parking spot a block from the diner, which was unheard of; pulled in and stopped the car, watching pedestrians in oversized parkas and wool hats hurry by, their heads down against the icy wind.

Once they were parked, Brennan turned and smiled at him fondly. "You're a lot like your father," she told him.

Parker didn't seem pleased with her estimation, though she'd meant it as high praise. Instead, a line appeared at the center of his forehead. He frowned.

"Yeah, right," he muttered.

She had no idea what the appropriate response to this might be. After an awkward moment or two, she finally nodded in the general direction of their destination.

"Well, we're here. Did you still want pie?"

He nodded. For a moment, all of his angst seemed to vanish – he was a boy again, grinning at the thought of pie and ice cream on a cold day.

He really was remarkably like his father.

Brennan had assumed that Parker's revelation about the weekend was the reason for their outing. It turned out, however, that he had much bigger things on his mind. The moment they were seated and the waitress had taken their orders (coffee and a raspberry croissant for Brennan, milk and cherry pie with vanilla ice cream for Parker), she found out the real reason for his call.

The diner was packed, so they were seated at a booth at the back. Parker fidgeted briefly in his seat before reaching deep into his pocket to produce a disorderly pile that included lint, about fifty cents in change, a tiny plastic car, and a crumpled piece of paper.

After smoothing the paper out with what seemed great concentration, he pushed it toward Brennan.

She stared at it, clueless. A name was written in very feminine, very juvenile handwriting. _Alice, _with a heart in place of the dot over the letter _i_. Beneath it was a telephone number.

"What's this?" she finally asked.

He grimaced, looking utterly tormented.

"Remember when we went to Angela and Dr. Hodgins's place? And I went swimming and those girls were there?"

Since it had only been three days ago, she remembered quite well. She nodded.

"One of the girls gave you her number?" she guessed.

He nodded seriously, but said nothing. Brennan just waited for a few seconds, not certain what exactly was required of the moment. Finally, when Parker said nothing, she ventured a question.

"Did you… call?"

He rolled his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh that was almost exactly like a thousand such sighs she'd heard escape Booth's lips.

"No! Jeez, Bones."

She suppressed a smile at the familiar response. Parker sat up straighter, leaning in and lowering his voice.

"I just… I wasn't _going _to, but then I was thinking about how she can hold her breath for more than a minute underwater, and she said her dad's got a horse and.."

"You want to call her," Brennan concluded.

He hesitated for a moment, his cheeks turning bright pink. The waitress came and delivered their orders, and Parker directed his energy toward his food for a minute or more. Finally, between bites, he nodded his head.

"I thought maybe you'd know… y'know, what I should say. I mean – if I call." He paused. "But I'm still not sure I'm going to. Just, y'know… If I did."

Brennan's eyebrows went up in surprise. "You're asking me?"

Another nod, another bob of tousled blonde curls. He took another forkful of pie, not seeming at all aware of the irony of his inquiry.

"Sure," he said easily. "Dad says there are about a million guys dying to go out with you, a lot of 'em a lot richer and a lot smarter than him. So… I figured you could tell me why you picked him. What did he say?"

Brennan took a moment, considering both the question and the broader implication. A million guys – it was such a typical piece of Booth-esque hyperbole. Objectively speaking, she was aware that she could have her choice of many attractive, successful men around the globe. She just couldn't think of a single one that she'd rather be with than Booth.

"You're sure you wouldn't rather ask your father? He's much better at this type – " she stopped, because Parker was shaking his head vigorously.

"He'd make a big deal of it, Bones. And I'm not…" he paused, either searching for the right words or for the courage to speak them aloud. "I'm not good with this stuff like he is." His eyes fell to the pie, which he pushed around for a moment before he continued without looking at her. "He'd be disappointed."

"Parker, your father's very proud of you," she said quickly. "I can't imagine you doing anything that would ever disappoint him."

"I know," he nodded, with a very slight roll of the eyes. "I know he _says _that, but… I just don't want it to be a big deal."

"And your mother?"

The eye roll was more pronounced this time, and Brennan smiled. This she got. If Booth would make a so-called big deal, Rebecca would be exponentially more dramatic.

"Perhaps we could call Angela," Brennan suggested.

Parker made a face.

"_Bones. _Just… What did my dad _do? _Why do you like him? If you were this girl, what would you want me to say?"

It was so completely out of her comfort zone, she felt like she'd been jettisoned onto another planet entirely. But Parker was sitting there, waiting expectantly. Waiting for an answer.

She considered the most relevant factors, weighing her answer carefully.

Why did she love Booth?

"I'd want you to be yourself," she finally concluded. "I like your father because there's never any pretense – he speaks his mind. He's honest, and kind. And stubborn." She smiled slightly, then struggled to get back to the point. Suddenly, inspiration struck.

"Your father is very good at listening – that's why people open up to him so much. It seems as though he genuinely cares about people. You're that way," she told him.

The boy smiled shyly, his features brightening. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "Yes – you have a very empathetic sense about you, even though you're still young. Women – particularly female adolescents – are quite self-involved. If you ask about her, I imagine the conversation could go very well."

He considered the information she'd provided, pushing the soupy remains of his pie and ice cream around on his plate.

"So, I just… ask about her?" he finally said doubtfully.

It was honestly the best advice she had. She nodded, determined to stand by it.

"I think it could work," she said.

"Ask about her," Parker repeated quietly. He mulled the concept over before finally nodding his approval. "Yeah. That makes sense." Another second passed before he grew serious again. "But then what happens if she wants to, y'know, _go out_?"

Brennan shook her head quickly. "We'll cross that river when it rises."

He looked confused for a moment, then grinned endearingly – a Booth grin, through and through.

"You mean we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Bones."

She nodded, grinning right back. "Either way. Just don't worry about that now. The phone call comes first. Then we can worry about the rest."

* * *

Brennan had just dropped Parker at his mother's – surviving an awkward conversation with a clearly curious Rebecca – and was just getting back on the highway when her cell rang.

"Where are you?"

"In my car," she responded, wondering if this was the way all of her conversations with Booth would begin now that he was taking on even more responsibility with the FBI. "Where are you?"

There was a pause on the line, long enough to raise her level of concern perceptibly.

"Mason Neck," Booth finally responded.

Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. Mason Neck was a state park barely an hour outside DC.

"Sweets was right?"

"Yeah," Booth confirmed. "Sweets was right. I can't stay long – I've gotta get to the press room, but you mind coming out?"

"Of course. Is it the same as the others?"

Another pause, this one longer. Someone cut Brennan off in the commuter lane, and she hit the brakes quickly. Realized her palms were damp, her breathing slightly irregular.

"No, Bones – not quite the same. Two vics this time, no pretty packaging. Just get here as soon as you can."

"I'm on my way."

Booth was just leaving when she got there, the collar of his overcoat turned up and his gloved hands holding a cup of coffee that he handed her as soon as she was out of her car.

"I'm sorry, Bones, but I've really gotta run. Everything okay with Parker?"

He was looking at her strangely. It took her a moment before she realized that he was trying to figure out what his son had said to her. Whether he'd mentioned the trip to Booth's childhood home. The realization made her unexpectedly angry; she nodded, a certain coolness coloring her actions more than she'd intended.

"He's fine. We had a nice visit."

Booth nodded. "That's – well, that's great, I guess. Listen, I've gotta run."

"You already said that."

"Right." She noted that he looked flushed, nervous. "Okay, well – I think we've got things under control here, it's just up to you to okay everything, get them started on how you want the scene processed. And uh – " he hesitated.

She quirked an eyebrow, waiting. "And?"

"I – well, I'll need a status update. Before the conference, I mean, so I can have as much information as possible."

"Oh." She was taken aback – in her anger, she'd forgotten all the pressure Booth was facing. "Of course. What time is the conference?"

He glanced at his watch, swearing under his breath. "It's at six. I've got an hour to get back to the Hoover, get my shit together, figure out what the hell I'm gonna say…"

Despite her frustration over his secrecy, she found it difficult to stay angry with him at a time like this. She reached up impulsively and kissed his cheek, then brushed the smudge from her lipstick away quickly. "You'll be fine. And I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

"Okay." He nodded, looking calmer suddenly. "We still on for a late dinner?"

"It might just be take-out at the lab. I'll be late with another two sets of remains."

"Doesn't matter, I can wait. I'll see you later."

* * *

Booth was right when he said this crime scene was different from the others. Not only were there two bodies, but rather than being neatly arranged trailside, they'd been dumped haphazardly just inside park limits.

Both sets of bones were wrapped in quality sheets identical to those of the first two victims. Laminated missing persons posters lay beneath each bundle of bones. The children who stared back at her from the posters were younger than the previous victims – little girls with chubby faces and bright, eager eyes.

Brennan looked way from the images, returning her attention to the bones themselves.

"You won't need me for anything here," she told the officer in charge. "It looks as though this is identical to the other scenes – the remains are confined to the sheets. I'll need someone to take soil samples to compare with any we find on the bones, but I'd like to bag the remains and transport them to the Jeffersonian so I can begin analysis immediately."

The officer nodded quickly. "Booth said we should do whatever you say – it's your call."

She expected him to walk away to begin doing as she'd directed, but instead the man lingered another moment.

"One of those girls – she was the daughter of a friend of mine. He's deputy in a little hick town in Virginia, not far from here. I knew his kid when she was in diapers, you know? I was just kind of hoping to give him a heads up…"

Brennan shook her head vehemently. "It's very important that no one learns of this until I've had an opportunity to positively identify the victims. I'm sorry. I can't do that until I've had time to examine the remains more thoroughly."

The man massaged a knot in his anterior deltoids, an area where Booth commonly held tension. He gazed at the bodies at their feet.

"It's a bitch," he said softly. "A real bitch of a case."

Brennan nodded. "Yes," she agreed soberly. "Yes, it is."

* * *

Booth's press conference was just beginning when Brennan walked through the doors to the lab. She'd had only moments on the phone to brief him on her preliminary findings – which were virtually nonexistent – before he'd had to go. She hurried to Cam's office, where the others were gathered around the television.

"Has it started?" she asked breathlessly.

"Ssh – he's just coming on," Angela said.

When Booth appeared, in a staid blue suit with a striped black tie, Hodgins whistled while Angela made inappropriate comments and Sweets, who had apparently returned to the office in search of Brennan, applauded.

"There's our man!" Angela shouted, nudging Brennan with her shoulder.

Brennan blushed, her attention fixed on the screen. Over the years, many of her male acquaintances – and occasionally even lovers – had been in television interviews for one thing or other. Somehow, the lights and cameras all seemed to diminish them. They did nothing of the kind to Booth, however, who looked solid and, she had to admit, very handsome standing there.

"Ten bucks says he's got fifty proposals before he leaves the podium," Angels said.

"What?" Brennan asked, momentarily diverted from Booth's image.

"Proposals, sweetie. Not that he'll give a rat's ass, but… God, look at him." She sighed, and Hodgins cleared his throat.

"You do know I'm standing right here, right? The father of your child?"

"Ssh," Cam said, turning up the volume. "Shut up or get out – I want to hear this."

Angela gave Brennan a look, which Brennan chose to ignore as she returned her attention to the television screen.

"As Deputy Director Werner said, my name is Special Agent Seeley Booth – I've been assigned the case involving the discovery of two adolescent bodies in two different Virginia state parks over the past few days."

He went on to provide a brief overview of the details of the case – both victims were children of police officers, the cases appeared to be related… Brennan noted that he held back details like the sheets in which the bodies had been found, as well as the bone dimples and damaged dentition. He appeared nervous, his hands clenching the sides of the podium a bit too tightly, but gradually he relaxed as the conference drew to a close. As soon as he'd finished, reporters began shouting questions in a furor.

Booth glanced at Werner, standing a few feet behind him. Brennan saw the man nod, as though in answer to a silent question between them.

"I'll take a few questions, and then the Deputy Director will close with a statement regarding our plan of action."

The first question had to do with the most recent bodies discovered that afternoon. Booth hesitated, but didn't seem especially surprised by the question.

"I can't comment on that yet. I can tell you that two bodies were discovered this afternoon. Drs Camille Saroyan and Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian's Medico-Legal lab are both working with us to ensure that we are able to positively identify the remains quickly – "

"Were there posters with these bodies as well?" a reporter shouted.

Booth hesitated again. "Yes – uh, yes, the missing persons posters were with these bodies, as well."

"So, why not just go by the posters – they've been right so far, haven't they?" another reporter demanded.

Brennan felt a flush of anger at the idiocy of the question, noting that Booth also looked as though he was about to lose patience. A moment later, however, he regained his composure.

"Because that's not the way we identify a body – it's not the way we ID'd the first two, it's not the way we'll ID these two, it's not the way we'll ID the next – "

Cam winced, and Angela moaned aloud as the reporters suddenly exploded in a fresh frenzy of questions and accusations.

"What?" Brennan asked.

"So, you're anticipating more victims in this case – " one reporter finally shouted above the others.

"That," Hodgins said shortly.

For a moment, Booth appeared very near panic. "What? No! I mean – " He cleared his throat. Took a breath. When he looked at the reporters again, there was a sense of confidence that had been notably lacking up to that point.

He sighed. "Look, I obviously don't do this a lot – this whole talking to the press thing. You know what I do? I catch the bad guys. I work with law enforcement at all levels, I work with a crackerjack staff at the Jeffersonian, and I catch the bad guys. That's what I'm doing now. I promise you that, as this case unfolds, I'll do everything I can to be as up front with you and the public as possible. But, my number one priority is to catch whoever did this. My heart goes out to the officers and their families, who are grieving for their lost children right now. And that's where my loyalty lies – not with the press, and not with making politically correct, meaningless statements for the sake of a bunch of bureaucrats who've never solved a case in their lives."

The reporters began once more, in earnest now, and Deputy Director Werner stepped up to the podium.

"I'll take over from here, so Special Agent Booth can return to the case."

Booth walked off-camera. Brennan noticed that, suddenly, there seemed very little interested in the Deputy Director, and a great deal of interest in her partner.

"Wow," Cam said as she switched off the television.

"Wow," Angela echoed.

"What wow?" Brennan asked. "I thought he did very well."

"He did your kind of very well, sweetie," Angela assured her – which for some reason wasn't very assuring at all.

"I don't know what that means."

"It means Booth's there to play nice and make everybody look good, and that's not exactly what he just did."

"Unless…" Sweets began.

Everyone looked at him expectantly. He shrugged.

"He may actually be up there to do exactly what he did – to reassure the public that the FBI isn't just a bunch of stuffed shirts with no hearts."

"So, they picked Booth because he's a crappy public speaker?" Angela asked skeptically. "Personally, I think that sounds like a bad plan."

"They picked Booth because he's human. Well – he's human, and he looks great on camera. He obviously cares about the victims, and he's basically like a walking, talking action figure…" Sweets fell silent, coloring slightly.

Brennan looked at him, and he immediately became defensive.

"I'm sorry, but did you see the guy? I've been on the news before – I know what the camera does to normal people. Booth is not a normal person."

Now, everyone was staring at the psychologist. He reddened even more, gesturing at the television screen.

"Oh, come on! The man has no pores. His hair never moves. And he's got like… Don't tell me you haven't noticed the guy's body."

"Apparently, not as much as some people," Angela whispered loudly to Brennan.

"I think now I understand what you meant by a man crush," Brennan whispered back, just as loudly.

Sweets grumbled something under his breath about the maturity level at the Jeffersonian, and excused himself. Which meant the fun was over – with two more bodies awaiting identification in the lab, it was time to return to work once more.

* * *

It took significantly longer, with significantly fewer pieces, to reassemble the remains recovered at Mason Neck. Unlike the previous victims, both skeletons were missing a significant number of bones. The right femurs had been switched between victims, which meant Brennan had to use extra care to ensure that all bones were matched with the appropriate owner.

By the time she'd finished the first victim and felt comfortable enough to make an ID, it was nearly eleven pm. She stretched her back and spine, noting that the lab remained just as busy now as it had at mid-day. With a case like this, it was unlikely that anyone would be going home before midnight. Booth had called briefly to check in after his press conference, but she could tell from his tone – and the fact that he hadn't even asked what she thought of his press conference – that he was still with the higher-ups at the Bureau.

At that point, he'd still been insisting that he would arrive at some point for a late dinner in her office. Her stomach complained loudly, reminding her that she really couldn't wait that much longer for him to keep his promise. She returned to her office to write up a report on the third victim and search her desk for something to eat.

She'd no sooner discovered an unhealthily blackened banana and a stale bag of granola in her desk drawer than there was a light knock on her office door.

"Hi."

It was Cam. Brennan didn't respond to the salutation, waiting for whatever it was the pathologist was there to tell her.

"Uh – TJ's here."

Brennan looked beyond Cam and into the lab, which seemed notably lacking TJ.

"Where?"

The pathologist looked at her blankly. "Where what?"

"Where is he?" she prompted, unable to keep the impatience from her voice.

"Oh – right. Where. Well. He's in my office." She looked uncharacteristically ruffled. "Did you want to…?"

Now it was Brennan's turn for the blank stare. After a second or more, Cam finally sighed.

"Look, Seeley was pretty clear on this. And trust me, I'm the last person to ask how high when Seeley wants me to jump, but… This is you. He wants – " she took a breath, pausing before amending the statement. "He _needs _you to stay safe."

"He doesn't trust TJ," Brennan said. It came out more statement than question.

Cam nodded. "He doesn't trust TJ. And frankly? I don't trust him a whole hell of a lot myself. So, if you want to talk to the guy, you're gonna have to come out to the platform and talk to him."

Brennan stood, unable to hide her exasperation. "Did you call Booth?"

"I promised him I would."

Brennan nodded. Put on her lab coat, and followed Cam back to the platform.

She was standing over the second set of remains when she heard TJ clear his throat behind her.

"You've got guards now," he said dryly.

She turned, unable to hide a smile. "They're being careful."

"Very careful." He hesitated, looking uncomfortable for a moment. There were deep crescents beneath his eyes and his face was unshaven, his hair and overcoat slightly damp.

"Is it raining outside?" she asked, which seemed a stupid thing to ask once it was out in the open air.

"Not bad – just a little drizzle. It'll make the snow melt faster."

There was silence for a second or more. "That's good," she said finally. "The snow rarely lasts in DC."

He had his hands in his coat pockets, a look that she couldn't interpret on his face. Regret, certainly. Something else, but she wasn't certain she wanted to know what.

"So, did you… uh, I mean, I don't blame you if you did. The other night at Nietsche's – did you tell Booth about that?"

She made no indication one way or another, but he correctly interpreted her silence as confirmation. He took a deep breath, cracking a crooked smile as he quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Wow. So, should I draft a will now or do you think I'll be safe if I just get the hell out of Dodge?"

"I wasn't going to," she said quickly. "Tell him, I mean. We handled it, it was between you and me. I knew that. But there was…"

He started to take a step toward her, but stopped when he seemed to realize they weren't alone.

"It's all right, T. I mean, hell – I deserve it. I don't know what I was thinking. But, I just wanted to apologize. If you have the files handy, I'll just take them back and get out of your hair."

It shouldn't have been as unexpected as it was, she realized. Honestly, why would anyone in their right mind want to stay on somewhere when they were clearly unwanted? Nevertheless, Brennan couldn't deny a strange mix of relief and the faintest twinge of regret at his decision. She glanced around, noting the proximity of Cam and Hodgins, Angela lurking at the perimeter with no attempt at stealth.

"You're dropping the case?"

He shook his head. "Nah – I'll keep digging, I'll just do it on my own. There's no reason to drag you into this thing." He laughed – a grim, angry sound containing not a trace of humor. "It's probably all in my head anyway, no way you should be subjected to that."

She was the one to take the step forward, purposely avoiding the gazes of those around her. "It's not all in your head," she assured him, her voice lowered. "At least, I don't believe it is. I can't be certain that anything happened any differently than the police ultimately said, but the case itself was handled very badly. There's virtually no evidence I've seen that would conclusively convict your mother of anything."

"Except her confession," he corrected her. His eyes held hers for a moment, clearly interested in what she was saying. "So, you're saying there could really be something there. Something that might tie Philip to my father's murder?"

She hesitated. The files were in her office, and it seemed absurd that she couldn't simply invite him into her glass-walled enclave to go over those files. Once more ignoring those around her, she took another step forward. Before she could say anything, however, Angela came over with her sketchpad in her hand.

"Hey," she greeted Brennan briefly, then nodded coolly at TJ. "So you're still here, huh? Hasn't the west coast been calling you home yet?"

"Angela," Brennan warned her.

"Sorry. But I've been here fourteen hours now, and my feet are swollen and my head hurts and the munchkin has been kickboxing my insides for the better part of the day. And, oh yeah, today my job is all about IDing innocent little kids who should still be dreaming about castles and what they're gonna be when they grow up. So… Sorry, TJ, but my tact muscle is a little shot at the moment."

Instead of looking alarmed, he merely looked sympathetic. "I heard about the case on the news – you guys must be exhausted. I'll get out of your way, let you get back to work."

At his words, Angela actually did look sorry. "No – don't worry about it, it's not your fault. I just wanted to give you this, Bren."

The artist handed her the sketchpad, flipping the first two pages until she came to a sketched heart, an arrow through the center with two Rs on either side of it.

"What is this?"

Angela looked at TJ, then at Brennan, clearly questioning whether or not she could speak freely in front of the writer. Brennan nodded.

"It's all right – he's fine, you can talk."

"Okay. Well, _that _is what was branded on the bones of the first two victims – and will probably be on the other two we found today."

"This is the design on the bone dimples we found?" Brennan asked, incredulous. "But they were barely a centimeter in diameter. What could have made this? And why?"

Angela shook her head. "I'm still working on the what, and I doubt I'll ever have a clue on the why. But it's almost like a leather punch like I used to use to make handbags – they're really powerful, and if you know what you're doing you can make intricate designs even smaller than this. I'm checking around to find out if anyone has seen something like this before."

TJ was staring at the page oddly. After a moment, he looked at Angela and nodded toward the sketchpad.

"Do you mind if I take a closer look?"

"Go ahead."

He took the pad, turning it this way and that before he looked at Brennan with just a hint of excitement in his eyes.

"I think I know what that is."

He gestured to Angela's pencil with an unspoken question in his eyes, and she handed it over. A moment later, he was at a desk making a quick alteration to the drawing before he handed it back to Angela.

"The arrow – you see how there are only one set of quills at the end."

She nodded. "Yeah. I thought it was weird, but when I magnified the image, it was pretty clear."

"That's because it's not an arrow. It's a T." He rolled his eyes. "I know – a weird T, or a weirder arrow. Either way, not the best symbol for a cause."

Brennan came to attention at this, remembering Sweets's words earlier. "A cause?"

"RTR – it's not well known, and it was back… Jesus, over thirty years ago now. But that was definitely their insignia."

"Whose insignia?" This from Hodgins, who'd just joined them with a fresh reading on his soil analyses.

"It stood for 'Remember the Ridge,'" TJ elaborated. "Black Ridge, Kentucky. December, 1978."

"Whoa," Hodgins said excitedly. "I remember reading about that."

Brennan cleared her throat. "Excuse me – what is Black Ridge?"

"Way before Waco or Ruby Ridge, there was Black Ridge. A compound out in Kentucky – way the hell out in the heart of Appalachia," Hodgins began.

Before he could continue, however, Booth's voice interrupted them.

"Bones."

Hiss voice was so unexpected that Brennan actually jumped. He called up from the base of the platform steps, the word sharp enough to closely resemble a reprimand. Brennan turned on him, struggling to keep her annoyance under control as he took the steps two at a time.

"Hey, Teej," he said with forced cordiality, facing off with the writer standing beside her. "Long time no see."

TJ nodded hello to Booth, but kept his gaze fixed on the sketch – as did most of the rest of the group.

"So, if this Black Ridge was so famous, why have I never heard of it?" Brennan asked skeptically, too caught up in what could be their first lead in the case to fully acknowledge her partner.

"What Black Ridge?" Booth wanted to know. Brennan noticed that he inserted himself between she and TJ immediately; she was fairly certain this was not an accident.

"We think TJ here just cracked the case," Hodgins said.

"Didn't crack it," Angela corrected him with a glare. "Just… nudged it, a little." She handed Booth the sketchpad. "The bone dimples Brennan noticed earlier? There was an insignia inside it."

"And this was it?" He looked at all of them, then at TJ, his face slowly flushing with anger. "Why the hell is he here at all, when you're looking at a piece of the case nobody's supposed to know about?"

"I said it was all right," Brennan interjected. "He was already cleared by Cam to shadow me this week."

"Well, he wasn't cleared by me," Booth's entire body had tensed, his fists clenched and his jaw tight. "Do you have any idea how sensitive this kind of thing is? He's a writer, for Christ's sake!"

The entire room had gone still. TJ shifted uncomfortably, looking directly past Booth at Brennan. It didn't strike her as a good move.

"Maybe I should go," he said hesitantly.

Brennan started to intercede, but Booth shook his head.

"No way – you're not goin' anywhere 'til we get a chance to talk. Come on – Bones, your office. Now."

She shrugged her arm out of his grasp. "We were in the middle of discussing the case."

"And we'll get back to discussing the case, just as soon as you and me talk to Hemingway here and then boot his ass out of DC. If I don't cart him downtown first."

Booth pushed TJ toward her office. He wheeled; for the first time since Brennan had met him, the writer looked genuinely angry.

"Keep your hands off me," he ground out, his green eyes suddenly charged.

Booth said nothing. For a moment, the two men stood at a stalemate, sizing one another up in a way that made Brennan forget her fatigue entirely.

"Come on, guys," Angela finally said. "Back off."

"We're fine," Booth reassured her, his tone deceptively light. "Right, Teej?" He nodded toward Brennan's office again, but she noticed that he did not attempt to touch the other man this time. "After you."

As soon as they were in Brennan's office, Booth tossed several large, slightly blurry photos onto her desk.

"Did TJ happen to mention where he was last night by any chance, Bones?"

She looked at him in confusion. "He just arrived – we haven't really had time to talk."

TJ looked tense suddenly, averting his eyes from Brennan's as soon as he saw the content of the photos on the desk. Brennan took a step closer. Studied them for a long second or more before what she was seeing registered.

"These are my hallway." She looked again, confusion transforming in an instant to disbelief. Then rage. "Why were you in my hallway last night?"

TJ looked at her guiltily.

"Not your finest hour either, my friend," Booth taunted him. "If you're gonna be in front of the camera, you should at least have the brains to get sobered up first. I got these from the building surveillance feed."

"I just wanted to apologize to you," TJ finally said. He was ignoring Booth now, his eyes only on Brennan's. "I just… I wanted to see you. Trust me, I know how stupid it was. But I figured I'd go there, I'd say my piece, and that'd be the end of it. I could go."

"Except she wasn't home," Booth interjected.

She was standing too close to TJ, she realized – she felt Booth's presence behind her, anchoring her, and the fury that had threatened to consume her only moments before drained quickly. She stepped backward. Felt Booth's hand settle at her back – whether he meant it as a sign of ownership or not, she suddenly felt only comfort.

"So you called Cam," she guessed. "That's why she needed to talk to you this morning?" She looked at Booth, who nodded his confirmation.

"He called the lab, and Cam was working late. She recognized writer boy's voice… And Cam being the friend she is," Booth said with an unexpected smile, "figured she'd just let him know the score."

"She told you we were spending the night together," Brennan said to TJ, as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.

TJ nodded, his eyes still only on hers. "Yeah. She told me. Which is when it finally got through my thick skull… That's it. Game over. So, I got a cab and went home. Dried out. Came here tonight to ask for the files back, so I can go the hell back to Portland and try to patch things up with Addie before she boots my ass out for good."

"You forgot the part where you trashed her apartment and killed my goddamn TV," Booth said, the anger beginning to bleed through now.

TJ's eyes widened impressively. "What? Are you kidding me? I didn't touch your apartment – I called the lab from your hallway when you didn't answer the door. That's it. I left as soon as I got off the phone. Someone broke into your place?"

"Like you don't know," Booth said. He came up on TJ fast, but TJ didn't move.

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. You really think I'd be stupid enough to break into her place? I'd be the first suspect. Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because you're nuts," Booth said. "Or dumb. Or both. What the hell do I care why you did it? Besides, the way you looked on the tape last night, it didn't seem like you were doing much thinking."

Brennan left the two of them abruptly, going to the briefcase she'd left beside her sofa. Wordlessly, she removed TJ's files and brought them to him. Put them in his hands without looking him in the eye.

"I think Booth's right – you should go back to Portland. And I would appreciate it if you didn't try to contact me again."

She felt tears prick her eyes, the residual fear and fatigue from the previous night only compounding her emotional response. Booth, to his credit, stepped aside and made no move to force the issue.

TJ nodded, still focused completely on Brennan.

"T, I'm sorry. I didn't mean… This wasn't why I came out here. And the apartment – you have to believe me on that. It wasn't me. I talked to Cam, pissed and moaned and punched the wall in your hallway. And then I got it. I'm leaving. But – for your own safety – somebody else did your apartment. Not me."

She didn't say anything, and she didn't look at him. Simply stood there with her arms over her chest, feeling exhausted and slightly sick to her stomach.

"Good luck with everything," she finally said, gathering enough resolve to tip her head up and look him in the eye. "I hope things work out for you."

His eyes moistened. He nodded, seeming to see only her. "You too, T. I really do."

As he was leaving, he turned to Booth. "Take care of her," he said quietly. "Because the second you don't, I'll be on the first plane out here to do it for you."

Booth held the door open, offering no response. She watched the writer walk out silently, his shoulders squared and his eyes straight ahead. Booth closed the door behind him, but he didn't go to her right away. Instead, he simply watched her as she fought tears.

"Are you sure?" he finally asked, when it seemed neither of them knew quite how to break the silence.

"Sure?" she asked, brushing away the moisture in her eyes. "Sure about what?"

"About us, Bones," he said brusquely. "You and me." He took a shaky breath. "Because the way you were looking at him? Whatever was going on between you two? You didn't look all that sure when he was saying goodbye."

She had no idea how to respond to that. Was she sure? She liked TJ. Admired his intelligence, his wit, his ease in situations where she felt nothing but discomfort. Found him attractive enough, even.

Booth was watching her, with brown eyes that she'd found maddening from the first day they'd met. Outside her office, the lab was still brimming with activity – midnight had been a conservative estimate, it seemed. The way the case was going now, they would be lucky if they left the Jeffersonian before daybreak. Her partner looked tired. Stressed. Uncertain. She thought of the weekend he'd spent with Parker; the stories he hadn't told her, the silences she couldn't seem to break.

She went and put her arms around him, laying her head against his chest. It took him several seconds before he responded, standing very still before he finally – almost reluctantly – put his arms around her and held her close. He lay a kiss in her hair, then another.

"Parker asked me today what he should say to a girl who likes him," she finally said quietly.

Booth laughed suddenly – rich and low, a comforting rumble in his chest as he held her tighter.

"That's why he wanted to meet with you?" he asked. "For advice about love?"

She poked him in the stomach, leaning back enough to look him in the eye. "You don't have to sound so amazed. I gave him good advice."

He leaned in and kissed her then, his lips soft at first before the kiss escalated. He pressed his tongue between her lips, his hands on either side of her face and his body solid against her own. When they came up for air, they both seemed slightly dazed. Booth smiled at her, a lopsided grin on his face.

"I'm sure you gave him great advice, Bones. No doubt in my mind."

* * *

Once all the personal drama had been resolved – or perhaps merely set aside in favor of simpler matters – Booth and Brennan returned to the platform to pursue the matter of Black Ridge, Kentucky.

"So, this symbol was actually… what? Branded on the bones or something?" Booth asked, disgust clear on his face.

"Well," Angela responded hesitantly. "Yeah. Kind of. God, this job really is too much."

"Someone was about to explain exactly what this Black Ridge was, before we were interrupted," Brennan prompted.

"It happened about two weeks after Jonestown," Angela responded, reading from a sheet she'd apparently just printed out from the internet. "They were still digging out bodies in Guyana, and the government got a little trigger happy with other fringe groups here in the US."

"A little trigger happy?" Jack scoffed. "Dude – the Feds went in there with teargas and automatic weapons, and when the smoke cleared, five kids and a pregnant mother were dead."

"It wasn't the Feds," Booth interrupted, his voice tense and his gaze intent on the sketch Angela had pinned to the bulletin board. "It was a hick town sheriff and a bunch of off-duty cops who decided to play cowboy. Get your facts straight before you start repeating crap like this, huh? A few good old boys with guns who were scared shitless after Jim Jones took out a congregation the size of their hometown got a posse together, and it was a fucking nightmare."

"So, what does that have to do with this?" Brennan pressed, hoping she didn't already know the answer.

"Four kids so far – all of them the children of small-town cops," Booth said. "Sweets said there was a cause. How much do you wanna bet we'll have two more victims before the weekend's out."

Booth's phone rang then – so suddenly that almost everyone in the room jumped, all eyes turning to him. It was just past midnight, and Brennan wasn't certain she wanted to know who was calling. He excused himself and took the call in Brennan's office, leaving the others to stare uneasily at the insignia that suddenly seemed to hold so much menace.

"So, that's it then?" Angela wanted to know. "We just… what? Sit around and wait for more dead kids to show up? I mean, there's not a damn thing we can do about any of it - all the victims so far have been dead for years. What exactly are we supposed to do?" Her voice had increased in volume, until she was near shouting.

Cam looked at Hodgins, who nodded understandingly – seemingly to a question that had not been asked.

"C'mon, babe – let's go home. We'll figure it out tomorrow, okay?"

She looked at Brennan. "There's another body to identify – the fourth little girl. You said you might need a facial reconstruction."

"It can wait until morning," Brennan assured her, though she wasn't entirely sure this was true. "You need to go home – get some sleep."

Angela shook her head. "If you're staying, I'm staying. There's too much at stake with this – "

Booth reappeared suddenly. "There's too much at stake right there," he nodded toward Angela's stomach. "Come on, Ange – let Hodgins take you home. We're all turning in, too."

Brennan raised her eyebrows at him, but he just shook his head. "No arguments, all right? This is my case, I'm calling the shots. It's after midnight, you guys have been here what, sixteen hours? More? People get sloppy, evidence gets tainted, my case gets thrown out. And that's not gonna do anybody any good. Go home."

Cam nodded. "He's right, people. We'll start on the fourth victim tomorrow, when everyone's got fresh eyes. Dr. Brennan?" she asked, clearly anticipating an argument.

"I'm just going to stay a little longer to compare a few anomalies between the four victims. It won't take long."

Booth looked at Cam, who shook her head firmly. "Nope. We work this together, all of us. In the morning. This isn't going to be solved in the next twenty-four hours – I have a feeling this will take some time. No sprinting."

Brennan thought of how Booth had used the same analogy when they were just beginning the Gormogon case. Her stomach turned when she considered how that had turned out; she ran a hand through her hair, maintaining a stubborn silence until she saw Angela standing there. A hand over her swelling belly, exhaustion and fear plain on her face.

"Fine. No sprinting. We'll be here first thing tomorrow, though."

"Agreed," Cam nodded. "So that's it, people – pack up what you were doing, make sure that any documentation, remains, and potential evidence are locked up tight. I want this place dark and soulless in ten minutes."

* * *

Brennan's car was cold, the windshield iced over from two days stuck in the Jeffersonian parking lot, when she finally left the lab and followed Booth back to her apartment. She'd assured him that she wanted only to pick up a few things and then leave her car before they would drive back to his place together… That wasn't necessarily the whole truth, however.

In reality, she wanted just a moment in her own space; wanted to stand in her home and be surrounded by her things, regardless of their current state of disrepair. And beyond that, she had to admit that there was a small part of her that felt as though she would be able to tell whether TJ had been telling the truth, if she went back inside. She would be able to look at the chaos, truly scrutinize the destruction, and somehow she would know if he was behind it.

Illogical was really too kind a word for that kind of theory, and she knew it.

Nevertheless, she went. Booth pulled into the space beside her, his face a combination of fatigue and concern.

"You sure you want to go in there now, Bones?" he asked uneasily.

She nodded, though she felt badly that she was making him stay up even later than he already had for something that would ultimately be pointless.

"I just want to pick up a few things. I'll be right out."

"Yeah, right – forget it, Bones, there's no way you're going up there alone. Not 'til we figure out who was behind the break-in for sure."

The night had gotten chilly again, though nothing like the temperatures of the previous few days. Rain had been falling all day, so that the last remnants of fallen snow were merely muddy clumps of ice along the walkways. Brennan considered arguing, but realized it would be pointless. She was too tired to argue, anyway.

Neither of them had the energy for the stairs, taking the elevator for the second night in a row. They stood close together but not touching, slumped against the back wall with their eyes closed. When they got out, Booth insisted on going first. Once they'd reached her door, she noted the shiny new locks now in place. Brennan raised her eyebrows at him. He nodded.

"Looks like we're okay, go ahead."

The building super had left her new keys in her mailbox downstairs. She opened the door and went in, and was hit full force once more with the magnitude of the damage. For a long minute or more, she simply stood there.

"You really think TJ did this?" she finally asked, her voice coming out more pained than she would have liked.

Booth tensed. "I don't know, Bones. You know him better than I do – what do you think?"

It seemed to her there was an implication in the statement, one she couldn't bring herself to ignore any longer.

"I'm with you. I haven't given you any reason to think otherwise."

"I never said you did, Bones." His voice was still cool. Distant and detached, and she felt a cold hard anger tighten in her chest.

"Do you think something happened between TJ and me? Is that why you've been like this since you got back?"

"Is that why I've been like what, Bones?" he demanded. His voice had risen uncharacteristically, frustration and anger changing the face she loved to one that drove her completely mad. "What have I been like, exactly? I've spent two fuckin' nights with you in the past three weeks – the first one, we were fighting like cats and dogs, and the second one I was trying to figure out whether some jackass is trying to kill you. Again. And in between all that, I've got dead kids popping up all over the fucking state and my goddamn career on the line when I never – "

He stopped. Closed his mouth, breathing deeply for a moment or two.

"I don't want to fight. I'm tired – just get your stuff so we can go."

She made no move, studying him intently. "When you never what?" she asked uncertainly. "What were you going to say?"

"Nothing, Bones. All right? Nothing. Just… Whatever you were here to get, can we just grab it already?"

"Why do you always do that?" She knew it was the wrong time to have this discussion; the wrong time to bring up the things that were bothering her, her concerns about their relationship and the changes she'd seen in him recently. But somehow once she'd begun, she couldn't bring herself to stop.

"Do what, Bones?" he asked, his voice at once irritated and very, very tired.

"You don't talk to me anymore," she began, the words that followed coming out in a torrent. "You start to say something meaningful, and then you stop. And unless I pry it out of you like I did this morning, then I have no way of knowing what you're thinking or what's happening between us. And not merely small things – you went to visit your family home this weekend, and you never said anything to me about it. Is that why you're so angry? Is it TJ, or is it something that happened while you were away? Is it me?" she asked, unable to keep the uncertainty from her tone. "Are you angry with me because I don't empathize the way that Cam or Rebecca would?"

He looked up sharply when she mentioned his weekend with Parker. "Bones, do me a favor, huh? Just stick with dead people for a while – you're better at it. Leave the live ones to the rest of us. Don't try to do psychology; it's not your game."

For a moment, she said nothing. She felt like all her breath had left her – like she'd been kicked in the stomach. It was that visceral. She took a step back, watching as Booth's face changed from anger to genuine remorse.

"Jesus, Bones – I'm sorry. That was a shitty thing to say." He ran a hand through his hair, taking a step toward her. "Look, there's just a lot going on right now, baby." He took a shaky breath. "I'm trying – I swear, I'm trying."

She made no move toward him, his words and tone still echoing in her head. Tears pricked her eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away. A second passed. Then another. Booth took another step toward her, and she took a step back. Stared at the floor, before finally meeting his eye.

"I'd like you to go," she said quietly. Her voice sounded much calmer than she had anticipated.

Booth looked the way she'd felt just moments before – like he'd just been hit in the stomach.

"What? C'mon, Bones – just forget what I said, okay? We can talk about all this stuff in the morning."

She shook her head, intractable. "You don't have to worry about me here – I have new locks on the doors."

"But the place is trashed. Your bed doesn't even look like a bed anymore, for Christ's sake," he said, his voice rising once more.

"Please go." There was a trace of pleading in her tone – if he continued pushing, she knew she wouldn't be able to hold back from saying things that she was fairly certain she would regret in the light of day. Not to mention the tears that she was barely able to hold back, at this point.

"Bones." It was his turn to plead, this time. He went to her, his index finger tipping her chin up until she met his eye. "I'm sorry, baby. Just come home with me, and we'll talk. We'll work this out."

There was a moment's hesitation, while she considered his offer. They could talk. But she was exhausted, and he was exhausted, and they had a case like none either of them had ever been part of before, waiting for them at the lab. She tilted her face away from his touch and shook her head, aware that a stray tear was marking a trail down her cheek.

"Go, Booth. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Before he could argue any further, she turned around and left, bound for her destroyed bedroom and the safe haven she had once known it to be. Once inside, she closed the door behind her. Waited until she'd heard her front door open and close, and then began methodically removing the ruined sheets from her bed and picking up debris from the floor.

The lamp that had been on her nightstand now lay in pieces on the ground. She knelt and picked it up, her breath coming harder as she fought to retain some semblance of control. She'd managed to pick up the bulk of the pieces when the final fragment – a large, jagged edge that she should have used more care to handle – cut deeply into the tender flesh just below her thumb. And just like that, as she watched blood fill the wound and begin to form thick crimson drops, all of the frustration and fury of the past forty-eight hours came rushing out. She hurled the lamp against the wall, shattering what remained of it, and then sat on her bed and stopped fighting the tears that had been threatening since she'd first walked through her door and found her space violated by some new, faceless danger.

Wrapping her hand in one of the fresh pillowcases she'd intended to use to re-make her bed, she curled into herself and – just for a moment – gave in.

She wept.

TBC


	6. Chapter Five

Booth's first clue that it would be a monumentally shitty day came at 5:30 that morning, when Werner called and woke him after a grand total of two hours' sleep. When the phone rang, he woke with his heart pounding and got tangled in the sheets trying to get out of bed without waking Bones. Then he stubbed his toe on Parker's damned remote control truck in the living room, before almost hanging up on Werner just as he'd finally managed a strangled hello.

"I got your message," Werner said, without bothering to apologize for calling so early. "Who the hell leaked the Staunton vic?"

Booth took a second to try and clear his head and go over everything that had happened in the last twelve hours. At three-thirty, his blood pressure through the roof and his heart in overdrive after finding Bones's apartment trashed, he'd left a message for Cam telling her Bones would be late the next morning. He'd given her the short version of what had happened, and then he'd called Werner to tell him what the cops, Windham and Anders, had said: the story was out – cop's kids were being kidnapped and killed. It didn't matter that it was only two (so far, Booth thought grimly), or that the kidnappings had happened years apart; now that the story was out, it wouldn't be long before the press caught wind of it and whipped the general public into a frenzy.

He cleared his throat, trying to find an answer that would satisfy Werner without hanging Hal Watkins – the sheriff on the scene at Staunton, and a man whose son was actually one of Parker's Boy Scout buddies – out to dry.

"I'm not sure, sir. I'll check into it today, and I'll make sure the leak gets plugged before the day's out."

"Don't promise me things you can't deliver, Seeley. Brennan okay?"

Booth had forgotten he'd mentioned the break-in at Bones's place in his message to Werner.

"Yeah – just shaken up, I think. Listen, sir, I hate to ask, but I was wondering if you could maybe – "

"Already done," Werner interrupted. He sounded almost human, which was a nice change of pace. "I've got a security detail who'll keep tabs on her once you drop her at the Jeffersonian. No problem."

"Thanks, sir." He was in the kitchen, the green numbers of the microwave casting a creepy glow in the darkness. December in DC meant daylight wouldn't come for another hour. He had a sink full of dirty dishes, and the apartment was freezing.

"Was there anything else?" he finally asked, when Werner didn't offer anything more but still didn't hang up.

"Yeah," Werner said immediately – almost like he'd been waiting for Booth to ask. "I need to see you in my office. Eleven o'clock work for you?"

The way he asked, it didn't sound much like a question.

"That'll be fine, sir." Booth tried to think of some way to ask what the meeting was about without actually sounding like he was asking – though he had a sinking feeling he already knew.

"Should I bring anything with me?"

"Any updates on the body dumps," Werner told him. "And wear a normal tie today – no crazy colors, nothing too flashy. And leave your belt buckle at home. I'll see you at eleven."

Booth snapped shut his phone and sank to the couch. Shit. It was definitely not gonna be a good day.

Since there was no chance in hell he'd be going back to sleep, Booth did the dishes and cleaned the place up a little. Cranked the heat, took a shower, shaved, drank some coffee. Every once in a while he'd peek in on Bones, and it did his heart good to see how relaxed she seemed at his place. Whatever else was going on, he must be doing something right: Temperance Brennan was curled up like a baby cat under his sheets, a look that might even be called peaceful on her pretty face.

That had to count for something.

He managed to hold off until six-thirty before he decided to just climb back into bed for a few minutes. No big deal, right? Maybe just catch a quick nap before he woke Bones and they had to get going.

He stripped back down to his boxers and lay down beside her. Without a second's hesitation, she curled into him – her ass pressed to his crotch, his hand held tight in her own. He started thinking about the meeting with Werner, and grimaced at the thought.

The request that he wear an FBI-issue tie was the big tip-off; now, he definitely knew what was going on. Boring suits and boring ties meant bureaucrats and ass kissing and – he was pretty sure – a more public role than he'd ever wanted in a case that could be career suicide if things went the wrong way. He sighed, the tension settling in his shoulders and the small of his back.

Bones shifted next to him, her bottom brushing against him with just enough pressure to send thoughts of Werner and his stooges right out the window. Booth nuzzled her neck, breathing in the smell of her hair and the softness of her skin. He thought of what she'd said last night about loving his place, about loving _him, _and held her a little tighter.

Before long, the smell and feel and fact of a half-naked Bones grinding against him in her sleep had him harder than a sixteen-year-old at his first skin flick. He eased back, trying to give himself some breathing room. Bones had never once complained about him waking her to fool around – in fact, if anything she was guilty of starting that kind of thing a hell of a lot more than he was. He'd lost count of how many mornings he'd woken up with her hands – or mouth, now _that _was something to wake up to – wrapped like a second skin around his cock. But neither of them had ever tried something like that after three hours' sleep and a trashed apartment. Probably best not to press his luck.

So, he just lay there for a while. It didn't matter how many saints he recited or how many baseball stats he thought of, though: he definitely wasn't getting any less turned on. Bones moaned in her sleep, and the soft whisper shot straight to his groin.

Damn it.

Booth had dated some pretty amazing looking women over the years, but so far none of them ever had the effect Bones had on him. Hell, sometimes she'd just give him a look across the room and he'd feel his jeans start to tighten. He pushed her t-shirt – his shirt, actually, though it looked a hell of a lot better when Bones was wearing it – up a little, running his hand along the silky soft skin at the small of her back.

She had on baby blue, cotton bikini briefs that hugged her curves in a way that should definitely not be legal. His mouth was watering by the time he maneuvered himself under the blankets and started kissing a line up her spine, his hands ghosting slow and easy up her thighs, resting on her belly and then moving like they had a mind of their own, straight up to her breasts. God, he loved her breasts – which, on anyone else, would have been tits, but somehow the word didn't feel right when he was thinking about Temperance.

She sighed and turned around in his arms. His mouth had been fixed on the curve between the small of her back and the top of her ass – now, he found himself face to face with her belly button. He moved up to those gorgeous breasts – pink tipped, the nipples tight and just begging to be savored, and it took one swipe with his tongue before he felt her body change as she woke up. For a second he froze, not sure whether he was about to get his ass kicked.

Instead, she just stretched – slow and lazy, her back arching as her breasts climbed higher, pressed against him.

"Mmmm…" She kind of moaned, and the sound alone was enough to send an ache right through him. She lifted the blankets and smiled at him, her eyes sleepy and a sexy grin that she didn't give anybody but him, damn it, on her lips. "Morning."

"I'm sorry," he said, all innocence. "Did I wake you?"

And that was the end of the story. Or not the end so much as the beginning of tangled legs and muffled moans and that little slice of heaven that was waking up to Bones, every goddamn day.

When they were through, her head on his chest and both of them breathing hard, bodies slick and morning light filtering through the blinds, he wished for a second that they could just go back and start all over again.

After a minute or two, Bones went quiet beside him, something sad and distant in the way she lay her head on his shoulder. He thought back to Oregon: almost losing her, having no clue where she was or if he'd ever lie beside her like this again. They didn't talk about that night anymore, which he knew was his fault. Sometimes, he wondered if Bones might need to say something about it – tell him what happened that night while she was alone on the mountain. But somehow, every time the subject came up, it made him a little sick. The fact was, just a word or two about that night was enough to bring back all the terror, all the guilt, all that helplessness that he knew would have eaten him alive if he hadn't gotten to her on time.

"You thinking about the break-in?" he finally asked, because he knew her – knew where she went, when her eyes took on that distant cast.

She told him she was, which of course he'd known. Looked at him with eyes he'd been gone for from day one, and his heart broke at her next words.

"I know that physically, I'm no different than I was before…" Her eyes filled with tears. He ran his hand over her cheek, but he let her go on. "Before Oregon. I have some residual pain in my ankle, but otherwise there's no difference. I'm exactly the same person I was before that night on the mountain."

It cost her something to say it out loud – maybe that was why he hated talking about it. The second either of them brought up Oregon, there was something in her eyes that he'd never seen before.

"But you feel different," he said, when she didn't go on.

He didn't say what he was thinking – that she _was _different, after that night. Maybe she didn't look any different to anyone else, but Booth knew her. The way she held herself; the way she'd go quiet sometimes while they were driving, her hands balling into fists all of a sudden. And he wouldn't know what set her off, wouldn't even know how he'd sensed it… But he'd know without a shadow of a doubt, that she was fighting Mickey and Taylor all over again.

They were both different.

"I don't want to live that way again." More tears, one marking a trail down her cheek. "I don't think I _can_ live that way again."

He kissed her then. Told her it would be okay; that they'd get whoever tore her place apart, that it wasn't the same. That she was safe.

The whole time, thinking: _Liar. _It wasn't okay, she wasn't safe. It wasn't just gonna go away. Someone had taken the time out of their busy fucking schedules to break into a secure building just to tear Bones's apartment to pieces.

People like that very rarely just got bored and moved on.

Finally, she got off that subject and onto one that, if possible, he wanted to talk about even less: himself.

"Detective Windham said he would hate to be wearing your shoes right now."

Time was running out, the sun high in the sky and the case waiting for them. Werner waiting for him. Cops saying they wouldn't want to be in his shoes, dead kids showing up out of nowhere, more parents he'd have to talk to… He felt that mean little edge he'd been feeling way too often lately, and tensed up.

"_In _my shoes right now, Bones. Not wearing them."

If he was trying to buy himself time, it didn't work. She continued, not thrown off for a second.

"What did he mean by that?"

He screwed up then, and he knew he'd screwed up even as he was doing it. He tried to brush her off, tried to dodge the question… Even lied, or tried to, but thought better of it when he saw the hurt in her eyes. He told her half-truths and finally felt himself start to lighten up a little when she gave him that smile of hers, not a trace of doubt to be found.

"You won't screw it up. You're very good at your job."

He pulled her close again. Laughed, and it felt damned good. "Well then, I guess that's settled. I won't screw it up."

For a few seconds, they just lay there. She started to get up, but held back when he asked her to stay: that was the thing that amazed him about her. The thing that took his breath away, every time. He'd seen the way Bones could steamroll over people's feelings, especially when her work was involved, and so it blew him away that all he had to do was ask and she was there for him. Even when there were bodies waiting, she lay back down in his arms – like that was the only place in the world she wanted to be.

She kissed his jaw, running a healing hand through his hair.

"We can stay here as long as you want."

He didn't tell her that that was pretty much forever. If he could put off starting this goddamn day and just stay here in her arms for the rest of his life, that would be an all right compromise. Instead, he took a breath and kissed her forehead. Found his voice.

"Thanks, Bones. Just another couple minutes."

* * *

Once he'd pulled himself together and driven Bones to the Jeffersonian, they were barely through the lab door before Angela had some kind of meltdown. Yet again, Booth found himself flashing back to that morning in Portland, after Bones had been taken. Still barely conscious and sick as a dog from Mickey's attack, he'd found Angela tied in the closet with tears streaming down her face.

"She's okay, Angela," he tried to reassure her now, knowing that she was probably picturing the same damned thing.

"No one's trying to kill me, Ange. I'm fine," Bones agreed.

Hodgins and the rest of the squints gathered 'round, but before the whole scene played out, Cam caught Booth's eye.

"Seeley – can I see you in my office?"

Bones was too busy with Angela to notice, so Booth excused himself and followed Cam to her cave. Something was up – he could tell from the way she was holding herself, arms crossed over her chest, walking like she was stepping over broken glass.

"Someone broke into Brennan's place last night?" she asked. Booth nodded, sensing that it wasn't her only question.

"Was anything stolen?"

He shook his head. "Not so far as we can tell. The place was pretty trashed, though."

"Any theories on who did it?"

He narrowed his eyes. "One or two. Camille, you mind telling me what the hell's on your mind?"

She paced the room a couple of times, arms still crossed over her chest. Booth was about to push her again, but finally she stopped.

"Okay, you have to stay calm."

"I am calm. I'm always calm."

She rolled her eyes in that way she did that always used to make him nuts. "Right – I'm sorry. I must have you confused with that other ex-Ranger who tried to use Joe Merrick as a human cue ball after he copped a feel at that bar in Jersey."

"Hey, he was being disrespectful," Booth bristled. "And what the hell was I s'posed to do, let it slide? You were my girl."

Cam just smiled. It was the kind of comment that might have stung a couple years ago. Now that Tripp and Bones were in the picture, though, it seemed like the past really was behind them.

"What's up, Cam?" he asked again. A little quieter now.

She squared her shoulders. Chewed her lip for a second before she looked him in the eye.

"I was in Brennan's office last night getting some files she'd left for me, and her phone rang. Typically, I wouldn't answer – it's her phone, after all, and while I of course only take professional calls here myself, I still wouldn't want – "

"Cam!" Booth interrupted, louder than he'd meant to.

She raised an eyebrow at him that said she was getting to it, so just settle the fuck down. He sighed.

"The point? Sometime before Parker hits college?"

"The point is: I answered the phone. I thought it might have something to do with the case since it was after ten, so… I answered it."

She didn't say anything more for a second, then rushed in like she'd just remembered the point of the whole story.

"It was TJ – sorry, did I forget to mention that part?"

The knot he'd had in his gut for days tightened at the news. Cam apparently got the picture, because she kept going without waiting for anymore prompts from him.

"He thought I was Brennan at first, and so he dove right in apologizing for something the other night. And I'm sure you're thinking the worst – "

Booth shook his head. "No. Bones told me he made a pass. She turned him down. She would've told me if it went any further."

There was no doubt in his voice – he knew Bones enough to know she wouldn't lie to him, no matter who bad the truth might be. There weren't a lot of certainties in life these days, but that remained one of them: Bones would always be honest with him.

Cam nodded. "Good – I mean, _I _knew nothing had happened, but I'm glad you aren't doing the blind jealousy thing. That's _so _attractive in a man." Another roll of the eyes.

"So – you answered the phone, it was TJ begging for another shot. I know there's gotta be more to this story than that."

She got serious again. Dead serious. "When he still thought I was Brennan, he said he was outside my – her – apartment."

Everything sharpened to a fine, hard clarity. "What time was this?"

"A little after ten."

Booth nodded. "And what did you tell him, once he figured out you weren't Bones?"

Deep breath. "I just wanted to set him straight – I mean, clearly this guy isn't great at taking hints. So, I told him she was with you. Overnight. At a crime scene, then a hotel. With you. Overnight," she repeated, in case he hadn't gotten that part.

Booth couldn't help but smile, despite the gravity of everything he was learning.

"Yeah? He must've loved that."

"He got quiet. I thought that would be the end of things. And while that doesn't prove he was the one who shredded Brennan's apartment, I'm just saying…"

"If he did, that was probably the trigger."

She nodded sheepishly. "Sorry. I honestly had no idea."

"Don't worry about it," Booth brushed off her apology. "I know what you were trying to do – I appreciate the help." He paused for a second, getting his thoughts together.

"Listen, if he stops by here today, I want you to give me a call. He's probably long gone by now, but if for some reason he's dumber than I think he is…"

She nodded. "You're the first person I'll call."

* * *

Water cooler talk at the Hoover that morning revolved around the case with the cops' kids. Booth went in for coffee and interrupted a couple of stuffed shirts who stopped talking the second he came through the door. Finally, one of the guys – Geoff, with a 'G' and an 'O,' if Booth remembered right – cleared his throat.

"Any word on the cop kid killer?"

Booth winced at the phrase. He'd been a cop long enough to know this wouldn't be the first time he heard it by a long shot – a catchy phrase like that was bound to stick. He shook his head, pouring himself a mug of lukewarm coffee from a stained pot.

"We just got the second body last night – it's at the Jeffersonian now."

"But you're pretty sure it was the Billings kid?" the other guy asked. He had red hair and freckles – Ted or Todd, Booth thought. Maybe Tad. Probably Tad. "I remember when that case first broke. Only child, I think – it's gotta be rough breaking something like that to the family."

An image of the Lincolns flashed through Booth's head, with their mangy collie and all those smiling family photos.

"Yeah," he nodded. "It's not my favorite part of the day."

Geoff looked at him funny. "Well, yeah – but that's not exactly gonna be part of your job description anymore, is it?"

Booth decided to play dumb, see if he could find anything out. "Why do you say that? I hand-delivered the news to the first vic's family – no reason I shouldn't do the same with this one." He gave them an innocent smile. "Is there?"

Tad laughed. "Now you're just playing us. Look, everybody knows you got the call. I mean, hell, look at that tie."

Geoff agreed. "Yep. Definitely got the call."

Booth shrugged. "Sorry, guys. No idea what you're talking about."

He left before the conversation could go any further – he had way too much shit to get done to waste the morning with a lot of useless gossip. And number one on his mile-long To Do list was trying to find any link between the Lincoln family in Kentucky and the Billings in Vermont, who were most likely the parents of this latest victim.

Most of the calls he made were dead ends. Izzie was in 4-H, went to church camp, that kind of thing. Arnold Billings had been a reckless little skate punk who'd pretty much started raising hell in diapers. No link – except that both dads were cops. Booth didn't like that kind of link. Honestly? It made him nervous as hell.

He got online and was doing a little fishing to try and figure out whether the fathers had worked any cases together when Sweets came buzzing into his office. He didn't look happy.

"You were supposed to stay at the hotel last night, after we processed the scene," he said, without so much as a 'How's it going?'

Booth shrugged. "I didn't feel like it – I thought Bones let you know."

"No, you didn't," Sweets said without a second's hesitation. "I'm sure neither of you had any intention of telling me, so I'm there like some idiot trying to track you – " he pulled up short. Seemed to realize he'd completely lost his cool, and straightened.

"Agent Booth, if you want me to do the best job possible to ensure that you and Dr Brennan continue to work together, you need to start cooperating."

The thing that sucked about the whole situation with this lame-ass FBI evaluation was that Booth had genuinely come to like Sweets. Yeah, he'd started out a know-it-all, and there was no way he'd ever forgive the psychologist for letting Bones believe he was dead all that time, but… Well, he knew Sweets was sorry as hell for what he'd done, and he also knew that at this point the kid kind of looked at them as family.

Still, it didn't mean he had to like what the Bureau was pulling with his and Bones's partnership.

Booth grumbled a little, but finally he nodded. "Yeah, all right. Fine. What do you need from me?"

For the next hour, Sweets followed Booth around asking stupid questions about what he liked about his job and whether he'd like it more or less if he didn't get to carry a gun – whatever the hell that meant. For the most part, Booth just ignored him. But when the psychologist started in on what kind of strain the job had been on things between him and Bones, he blew up.

"Y'know what, Sweets? I can't do this right now. I've got a meeting with Werner in fifteen minutes. I've got dead kids, I got two hours of sleep last night after two weeks of sleeping on the cold ground with a bunch of half-assed agents and hyperactive Boy Scouts, I've got some playboy writer bent on stealing my girlfriend, so… Go talk to Bones. Ask her why _she _wants to carry a gun. Leave me the fuck alone for five minutes."

Sweets's eyes had gotten wider the more Booth ranted. Once he was through, there were a couple of seconds where neither of them said anything, before Sweets suddenly – incredibly – just nodded. He actually looked a little worried.

"You might be right – you should probably have some time to gather your thoughts. Perhaps it would be best if I went to the lab to see how Dr. Brennan is coming along."

Booth sighed in relief. "Thanks, Sweets." He meant it. "I'll catch up with you later."

The psychologist started to go, but stopped at the door and turned to look at Booth again. "You know, there's no shame in asking for help sometimes," he started.

Booth started to interrupt, but Sweets held up his hand.

"I know, I know – you don't need help. But it's difficult to miss the degree of strain you've been under for the past several months." He stopped. Turned to go once more when Booth didn't encourage him, but at the last minute turned one more time.

"One of the primary reason humans seek companionship – a partnership, whether romantic or professional or both – is to share the considerable burden that invariably comes with living full, complicated existences in a multi-textured world. You have an opportunity to share that burden with Dr. Brennan – in fact, I believe she would welcome it."

Booth nodded. "I know, Sweets. All right? I just… I'm fine. I've just got a lot on my mind right now." He looked at the clock, and Sweets gave him a knowing smile.

"Right – I know. Hour's up," the kid joked. "I'll see you later, Agent Booth. But if you'd ever like to talk…"

"I know where to find you, Sweets," Booth assured him. It came out honest, no gruffness to his tone, which is the way he meant it. Sweets was a friend – he knew that. He just wasn't ready to talk. Honest to God, Booth didn't even know where he'd start.

* * *

At ten fifty-two, Booth took the stairs up to Werner's office on the top floor. He waited at the end of the hall until ten fifty-seven, then wiped his palms on his pants and straightened his boring tie before he walked through the door.

Alyce, Werner's secretary, gave him a sweet smile and nodded toward a thick cushioned chair. "Have a seat, Seeley. I'll let the Deputy Director know you're here."

Alyce was probably well into her sixties, but Booth doubted anyone would ever dare whisper the word 'retirement' around her. She'd been Cullen's assistant before he stepped down; before that, she'd assisted every Director or Deputy Director Booth could remember. She had soft white hair cut short and left undyed, and an attitude that put Booth in mind of Sister Mary Theresa back in parochial school – fair but tough, a little trace of misplaced devil in the spark of her eyes.

The spark came out when she took in his outfit.

"Nice tie."

Booth rolled his eyes, smoothing the tie down and straightening his jacket. "Thanks."

Werner got up when Booth came in. Booth didn't know why that struck him as a bad sign, exactly, but it did. He nodded to a seat.

The Deputy Director was old-school military-turned-FBI: square jaw, close-cut hair that had grayed at the edges, sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. He wasn't tall, but he was solid – lean and fit, Booth admired him as a man who'd taken on a position of power but hadn't gone soft with the job.

"You look tired," the man noted, pretty much first thing.

"I'm fine, sir. We were at the police station until late."

"Understandable. Any leads on the break-in?"

Booth shook his head, but stayed quiet. Werner's office was all leather and cherry wood – way nicer than what Cullen used to have. There were plaques and commendations on the walls, and Booth realized looking at the pictures staring back at him that he knew next to nothing about the Deputy Director.

"I'm sure you know at this point that there's the potential for this case to become a big deal here in DC," Werner finally opened.

Booth was grateful. Finally, after worrying about this question pretty much since he first found out about the second victim, it was out there. He nodded.

"Yes, sir. Anytime law enforcement is involved in a case – "

"Law enforcement and children," Werner corrected. "Cops' kids. You think there'll be more vics?"

Booth nodded without a seconds' hesitation. "If I were a gambling man anymore, I'd bet money on it."

Werner made a sour face. Stood and paced. Looked out his window. Came back, and sat down on the edge of his desk.

"You've been with the Bureau for a long time, Seeley."

Booth nodded, bracing himself. "I have."

"You like your job?"

"I love my job," he said honestly. "I wouldn't trade it for the world."

Werner didn't say anything to that, just studied him for a while. Booth stayed still; didn't so much as blink under the weight of the older man's gaze.

"You're what, pushing forty?"

"Getting there." He didn't elaborate; Werner knew how old he was. How tall he was, how much he weighed – hell, he probably knew what Booth had had for breakfast that morning. This was going somewhere, and Booth wasn't sure he wanted to know where.

"A man like you – a record like yours, good looking, good character… You could go far in this business."

_Here it comes,_ Booth thought. He sat up straighter, looking Werner in the eye.

"No disrespect, sir, but I don't really think of serving my country as a business."

Silence fell. Werner gave him a look like he was trying to figure out whether Booth was pulling his leg.

He nodded to a picture of a woman Booth assumed was his wife, kitty-cornered on the desk. The woman had dark hair – obviously dyed, her skin stretched tight from one too many collagen shots. If she was smiling in the picture, it would've been impossible to tell.

"That's my wife – Nancy. Been married thirty years."

"Congratulations, sir."

Werner gave him a look – apparently, Booth hadn't sounded quite as sincere as he'd meant to.

"I was like you once, you know. Loved being in the field. Loved the rush, the adventure, the mystery. But along about your age, I started thinking about other things."

Booth wished to hell he'd get to the point, but he just made a polite listening sound and waited. Werner seemed to sense he wasn't making an impression, because he switched tacks before he'd even gotten the horse out of the gate.

"This thing with you and Dr. Brennan – it's serious?"

For the first time, Booth was caught off guard. He saw a flicker of satisfaction in Werner's smile before he recovered.

"Uh – I think so. I mean… Yeah. I hope so."

Werner nodded. "And how do you suppose she feels, being a world-class writer, a formidable scientist, renowned for her intellect… I mean, no offense, Seeley, but you're a field agent. I know the salary. I lived on it for a very long time. It's not exactly what she's used to."

Booth started to argue, but Werner stopped him with his palm raised.

"Really, Seeley – I mean no offense here. Honestly. But what I'm saying is, it would be one thing if this was all you were capable of. You know? If you were like some of these other drones who're never gonna get beyond a government pension and two weeks' paid vacation, I'd never have called you in here."

It was warm in the office. A little too stuffy, and the sun was shining directly in Booth's eyes. He shifted to get out of the glare.

"But I'm not like those guys," Booth finished for him.

"You could have a career here – not just a job. Christ, Seeley, you could have this office one day. You just need to learn to play the game."

"And let me guess – you're gonna give me a lesson on the rules."

Werner's eyes got hard. Too late, Booth realized how disrespectful he sounded.

"Or I can hand it to someone else," Werner said, a little stiff now. "I'm not gonna sit here and bullshit you, pretend you're some naïve punk who doesn't know how the world works. This is a big case, and I need someone who can handle it to take the lead. I think you're the man for the job. Am I wrong?"

Booth hesitated, but only for a second. Tried to imagine himself in Werner's place twenty years from now, a picture of Bones smiling back at him. Deputy Director was never something he'd wanted. He loved puzzles, interrogations, that moment when the pieces came together and he knew he'd played a part in getting some monster off the streets before anybody else got hurt. He'd never been good at politics – all that game playing bullshit only seemed to get in the way of doing any real good, as far as he could see.

But Werner was right: he could barely pay the way for him and Parker, forget trying to play in the same field with Bones and guys like TJ Wright or David Lethem, the bestselling novelist who'd taken a shine to Bones over the summer. He sighed. It was a stretch, but he was willing to give it a shot.

"No, sir. You're not wrong."

Werner smiled. Got up and clapped him on the back. "Good man. All right – get your files and meet me in the briefing room in ten. We've got some serious work to do."

* * *

The rest of the day was a blur. Bones confirmed that the boy they'd found was definitely Arnold Billings, and then Booth had no more than arranged to have a cop in Montpelier notify the parents than he got the call about two more bodies. Bones was having pie with Parker; Angela was losing her shit; TJ was missing in action. And, of course, Booth had a fucking press conference to worry about through all of that.

The two new bodies were found at Mason Neck, a park less than an hour outside DC. If the Missing Persons posters were right – and Booth had an ugly feeling they were – then the skeletons belonged to two little girls. One five years old, one six. Unlike the bones that had been found earlier in the week, these weren't put together like a full skeleton. Instead, a hiker had literally found two bags of bones just inside park limits, laminated Missing Persons posters with them.

The case definitely wasn't getting any easier.

From Mason Neck, he rushed back to the Hoover to get ready for the press conference. While people he didn't know fucked around with his hair and make-up – _make-up,_ for Christ's sake – a crowd of PR cronies and media morons lectured him on how he stood, where he stood, when he smiled, what he wore. All the shit he'd pretty much figured out the first time he took the witness stand, but the difference was that it wouldn't be a dozen housewives and frustrated businessmen watching him in a closed courtroom. This was reporters and cameras, and behind those reporters and cameras would be a million-plus people just dying to see the Feds screw up.

The thing was, though, every time he started to get nervous about the whole thing – the conference and the case and the direction his career might be headed – all he had to do was think of his morning with Bones. Bones, who believed in him; who thought – God knew why – that he could do anything. Bones, whose blue eyes never seemed to doubt who he was or the stuff he was made of. He wanted to prove her right, wanted to be the kind of man who was worth that kind of faith.

And at the end of the day, the conference went all right. He thought he'd completely screwed the pooch when he made it sound like they were just sitting around waiting for more bodies, but Werner and the PR guy seemed to think he'd handled it okay. It didn't really matter, though, because the bottom line was, his first press conference was behind him. After that, there were debriefs and meetings with the higher-ups and the lower-downs, and then a section meeting to get his team together and a meeting with that team to make sure everybody was on the same page…

He'd never been to so many goddamn meetings in his life.

By the time Cam called him at eleven that night to tell him to get his ass over to the Jeffersonian because TJ had just shown up, he was almost grateful for the call, just so he could get the hell out of the Hoover and have a couple of minutes to himself.

_Almost _grateful. But not quite.

It wasn't until he'd gotten to the Jeffersonian and hauled TJ and Bones into Bones's office that the reality of what was going on sunk in. It happened while she was saying goodbye to the writer – not the best situation anyway, but Booth stood to the side and watched Bones's eyes fill with tears. And maybe it was just because she was tired, or the case had her more emotional than she would be otherwise. Maybe it was because they were having a hard time, and Booth hadn't been there for her the way he used to be.

Whatever it was, he couldn't just ignore the fact anymore: there was a connection between her and TJ.

"Are you sure?" he asked, once TJ was gone and he was able to find his voice again.

"Sure?" she asked, completely clueless. "Sure about what?"

"About us, Bones," he said. He sounded bitter. Which made sense, because he felt bitter as hell. "You and me. Because the way you were looking at him? Whatever was going on between you two? You didn't look all that sure when he was saying goodbye."

She didn't just dismiss it. Didn't rush to reassure him, and for the tiniest of seconds, he kind of hated her for that. Hated that she didn't have that gene or whatever the hell it was, that other women would have in this same situation. Somebody who wasn't Bones would rush to his side, kiss him senseless. Tell him it was all in his head; that she would never love anyone but him.

But Bones had to think about it, and she never really got around to telling him it was all in his head. Instead, she put her arms around him and lay her head on his chest. Everything went silent, 'til the sound of their breathing was the only thing left on the planet. He felt the way her hair brushed against his jaw, the way her breasts pressed against his chest. Instead of pushing the issue, he wrapped his arms around her. Kissed her hair. Willed the problem to just go away, if TJ would just get on that fucking plane and leave town.

"Parker asked me today what he should say to a girl who likes him," was what she finally said when the silence was broken.

Booth was so relieved he couldn't hold back the laughter.

"That's why he wanted to meet with you?" he asked. "For advice about love?"

And then they did kiss, and it was hot enough to get his blood moving again. Restore his faith in the two of them. Convince him that, maybe, the problems really were behind them now. He'd had his first real press conference that day, after all. Right? TJ was leaving town. They were going in the right direction.

Until the fight.

"Bones, do me a favor, huh? Just stick with dead people for a while – you're better at it. Leave the live ones to the rest of us. Don't try to do psychology; it's not your game."

It was the cruelest thing he could ever remember saying, to anyone – mostly because he knew Bones well enough to know exactly how much it would hurt her. She actually took a step back after he'd said it; actually winced, like he'd physically hit her. Every doubt he'd ever had about the man he was, how much like his father he might be, came rushing back at him.

And suddenly, standing in the doorway of her trashed apartment with the love of his life crying a foot away, a single, vicious thought blindsided him:

She'd be better off with a man like TJ.

"Jesus, Bones – I'm sorry. That was a shitty thing to say."

He apologized, called her baby. Gave her excuses for why he wasn't the man she needed him to be. All the while, thinking how much it sounded like the conversations between his folks after a fight. There were always sweet words and empty promises after his old man got juiced up and took a swing at his mom, or broke a lamp, or kicked the shit out of dear old Seeley, the punching bag of the family.

When she told him to go, he didn't fight her on it. Every other fight they'd had, he'd been convinced that he knew best. She was just pushing him away, but he'd stay and they'd work it out – because he _knew _that he was what she needed. Who she loved.

All of a sudden, that didn't seem so clear anymore.

"Go, Booth. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He watched the tears trail down her cheeks, and then she turned around and left the room. Booth waited maybe ten seconds, trying to get up the courage to man up, go through the bedroom door and tell her what an idiot he'd been.

But the courage never came.

He left.

* * *

Logically, he knew the best move from Bones's place was to just go the hell home. Try to forget how hurt she'd looked, get some sleep while she cooled down, and then beg like hell come morning. He stopped at the front desk on his way out, threatened the night security guy within an inch of his life to keep an eye on her apartment, and then spun out of the parking lot like some punk teenager who'd just gotten his heart stomped or his ass kicked.

Heading home, he was passing Founding Fathers when he saw Jared's bike parked out in front of the bar. He knew it was Jared's, of course, because nobody else in DC was stupid enough to ride a motorcycle in December. Booth pulled into a spot across the street, noting that the bar had almost gone dark – apparently, his little brother had given up his sobriety kick and was closing the place down tonight.

Well, maybe Booth could give him a hand.

When he got inside, Jared was sitting at the bar alone. Head down, scribbling something in a notebook. Booth came up behind him and he just about jumped out of his skin, shoving the notebook in his bag before Booth could get a good look. It looked like a long string of numbers – not a great sign, given Booth's own history with the numbers game.

"Jesus, Seel – I'm gonna put a fuckin' bell around your neck."

"Sniper training," Booth said, just because it was something to say. The bartender was a woman he hadn't seen before – tall, lean, thick dark hair and big brown eyes. She smiled at him with even white teeth.

"What can I get you, sailor?" She had a good voice – a whiskey voice, kind of like Bones got in the morning. Jared shot her a look Booth couldn't read.

"I was just gonna head out," his little brother said. Talking more to the girl behind the bar than to Booth.

"Sure you were," Booth said. He thought again about how much he should go home. Damn, but he should go home. The bartender gave him a knowing little smile; tipped an eyebrow his way.

He sat down.

"Whiskey. Straight up. And two of whatever's on tap."

Jared shook his head. "I'm all right," he nodded toward his drink.

"Who said it was for you?" Booth asked.

The bartender poured a shot and slid a pint his way – only one, he noticed – then stood there waiting. Jared looked on as Booth downed the shot in one beautiful, burning gulp, set down the glass, and nodded toward the bottle.

"You can leave it."

His voice was colder than he'd meant it to be, but the last thing he needed right now was to send the wrong signals. She waited another second for him to change his mind and ask her to hang around; when he didn't, she shrugged.

"I'll be out back closing down the kitchen. You got it out here, Jar?"

To Booth's surprise, his brother nodded.

"I come here a lot," he said with a shrug.

"Guess you must," Booth said. And poured himself another shot.

It took four shots to take the edge off. There was a couple in the corner kind of flirting in the dark – second date, Booth guessed. First and they wouldn't be so comfortable; third and they'd be home naked by now. The second date was all about the foreplay – building up the suspense, talking 'til dawn.

Booth liked second dates. Which was a good thing, because it occurred to him all of a sudden that the first four years of his relationship with Bones had been an awful lot like one.

"So, you gonna tell me why the hell you're here instead of shacked up with Tempe?" Jared asked, when Booth didn't say anything for a while.

Booth kind of grumbled. His head was getting that easy, slow feeling that came with half a bottle of whiskey. The bartender came back and eyed Jared, some silent exchange passing between them. Jared shook his head in answer to a question she hadn't asked – at least, not out loud – and she went away.

"We had a fight," Booth finally said.

"I figured." Jared kind of smiled. He was drinking Coke – nothing in it that Booth could smell, which he added to the growing list of weird things about his little brother tonight.

They were quiet again, sitting there shoulder to shoulder. He didn't know when Jared got so big. The kid used to be tiny – the smallest one on the playground, always the smartass. Just begging to get the snot kicked out of him.

Booth hardly recognized him anymore.

"You remember Cheers?" Booth asked suddenly.

Jared looked surprised. "The show?"

"Yeah," Booth said impatiently. "The show. Sam and Diane, Norm, Woody, Coach…"

"Sure, Seel – yeah, I remember." They were quiet for another few seconds. Jared waiting him out.

"You remember Woody's girlfriend?"

To his surprise, Jared nodded immediately. "Kelly. Definitely woulda tapped that."

Booth rolled his eyes, but he let it slide. He was warming to the analogy, thinking the whole thing over in his head.

"Remember that smarmy French guy who was always trying to steal her away from Woody?"

Jared sniggered. " 'I'm going to steal your girlfriend,'" he said, with a dead-on French accent.

Booth didn't laugh. Just poured himself another drink, though the warm buzz was gone now. His head felt heavy, the beginning of a headache pounding behind his temple. A second of silence passed, his glass still up to his lips.

"I hated that fuckin' guy," he finally said.

Jared looked at him again – closer this time, a little worried. "You okay, Seel?"

Booth didn't answer for a few seconds. He drained another shot, set the glass down. Pushed it and the near-empty bottle away carefully.

"I should go home."

"I'll second that," Jared said.

He dropped a wad of bills on the bar before Booth could even get his wallet out.

"C'mon – I'll give you a ride."

Booth shook his head. "I'm not riding on the back of your fuckin' bike. It's freezing out."

"Will!" Jared called. The girl with the hair and the teeth reappeared. Jared tossed her his keys. "Can you get the bike home okay? I'm gonna give my brother a lift. You got a handle on everything here?"

More looks Booth couldn't read. He started to say something, then shut the hell up. If Jared wanted to talk, they could do it on the way home. Instead, he fished his keys out of his pocket and handed them to Jared without a fight. As career moves went, him getting picked up on a DUI the night after his first press conference wouldn't be one of the best.

They were halfway home when Booth spotted a couple walking down the street: a tall blonde woman and a guy about the same height, skinny, dark blonde hair and a goatee. It took him a second before he placed the man, his head still fuzzy from the whiskey. Once he had, he grabbed Jared's arm.

"Pull over."

Jared just looked at him. "Why? Are you gonna puke?"

"No, I'm not gonna puke. Just pull over, damn it."

He started to reach for the wheel, but Jared shook him off and obliged by pulling into a bus space across the street from a block of bars. Booth hopped out without bothering to explain himself, his blood already running hot enough to ward off the cold air.

"Hey!" he yelled, halfway across the street and gaining ground fast on the hipsters up ahead. "Wright!"

The man turned. Somewhere in the back of his head, Booth heard Jared yelling behind him. He didn't slow down.

Once Booth reached him, there was maybe a milli-second where TJ just looked confused, like he didn't know what the hell was going on or who was coming at him. Once he realized, though, his face changed. Before Booth had time to do anything – say a word, throw a punch, shoot the bastard where he stood – TJ was on him.

It happened so fast, and came so totally out of the blue, that Booth didn't even respond at first. TJ's first punch was wild, his knuckles connecting with his temple. The impact wasn't enough to knock Booth down, but it was definitely enough to turn him sideways. TJ was about his height, but skinnier – didn't have Booth's mass and didn't have his muscle, but the kid did have some moves. A body blow followed, more precise this time - a jab to the kidneys that made it clear old TJ'd taken a turn or two in the ring.

It was the rabbit punch that woke Booth out of his stupor. Something went deadly still inside him. Far off in the night, sirens sounded. The air was cold enough to bite, a thin shine of ice on the sidewalk at his feet. There wasn't another soul on the street except the woman TJ'd been walking with – a quick glance and Booth recognized her from Portland. Then, it all vanished. In the next instant, the only things on the planet were Booth and TJ.

All the frustration about Bones, about his old house and his old man and his job and the future, all came together to a fine, deadly, pointed fury. He started with a right hook that sent the writer reeling, following up with a left that knocked TJ to the ground, and he couldn't remember ever wanting to do damage the way he wanted to right then. TJ was sitting on the pavement, bloodied and breathing hard, and all Booth wanted to do was follow him to the ground and beat the ever-loving shit out of him.

Jared caught up to him and grabbed him by the arm, but it didn't matter; Booth shrugged his brother off. Took a breath, and another one. Turned around and walked away, still breathing hard.

"You're stopping now?" he heard TJ yell after him. "Two pussy-ass punches – that's all I'm worth?"

"What do you, have a fuckin' death wish?" Jared yelled at the guy.

Booth turned back around, feeling himself start to settle down a little bit. The woman he'd recognized was kneeling beside TJ – Jamie Crankshaw, the writer Bones had made friends with back in Oregon. She handed TJ a tissue that was soaked in blood within about thirty seconds.

"Hey, Seeley. Long time no see," she said, still kneeling next to TJ. "Thanks for not killing our friend here." She smiled.

Booth remembered her as a good looking woman, and six months hadn't changed that. Honey blonde hair and fine bones, and a way about her that made him think she'd probably been through enough shit to be a good person to have around when you were going through something yourself.

"I thought you were going back to Oregon," Booth said, not bothering to answer Jamie just yet.

TJ actually laughed. Not a hard laugh, not a mocking one – kind of like he couldn't quite believe his luck.

"What, are you everywhere in this goddamn town? Do you have some kind of supersonic radar? I mean – "

"Hey," Booth cut him off. "Answer the question."

"You didn't ask one," TJ spit back, sounding for all the word like some spoiled kid.

Jamie rolled her eyes, cuffing TJ in the head. "Will you knock it off?" She turned her attention back to Booth. "He's leaving on Friday. Addie called me last night, told me she was worried about him – I flew out. We negotiated… First thing on Friday, he's on a plane out of here."

"I've got something I need to do first," TJ added.

The easiness Booth had just started to recover faded fast. Jared caught him by the arm like he could sense the change, and TJ held up his hand.

"Relax – it doesn't have anything to do with T – Dr. Brennan," he corrected himself at the look in Booth's eye.

"So, what _does_ it have to do with?" Booth pressed.

The bleeding wasn't stopping, and Booth was getting queasy watching it mix with the ice and snow on the pavement. He went over and crouched beside TJ, who flinched. Jamie stayed where she was, kneeling beside him. For the first time, she looked a little scared. Booth held up his hands to show he meant no harm.

"Here – Jesus, haven't you ever had a nose bleed before?"

He took the scarf from around his neck, wadded it up, and put it in TJ's hand, then showed him where to put pressure to stop the bleeding.

"Now, you mind telling me what the hell's so important you've gotta risk me grinding you into last week's lunch just to stick around?"

His head ached. When he put his hand up to his temple, he felt a bruise the size of a boiled egg forming there. Which was bound to inspire confidence if he had another fucking press conference in the next few days.

"It's none of your business."

Booth sighed. The anger was gone now – all that fists of fury crap had wrung it out of him. Now, all he wanted was to stop the bullshit and go the hell home. His knee popped and his head swam when he stood again, but he managed to keep himself upright. With no better option in sight, he took a stab at seeming sober.

"Look, you took the first swing – which means I could haul you in for assaulting a federal officer. So, just can the bullshit and tell me what the fuck's going on so I can go home."

TJ didn't look like he'd be giving in anytime soon, but Jamie spoke up instead.

"Rebecca Woolrich."

Booth looked at TJ blankly. The man looked away, scarf still at his nose, eyes hard. And didn't say a goddamn word.

Jamie sighed. "I love you, Teej, but sometimes you just don't know when to quit." She turned her back on him and focused on Booth. "The senator – Phillip Taylor's ex-wife? TJ wants to see her when her kids aren't around, away from her stomping grounds."

"And she's here?" Booth asked. He wasn't crazy about the fact that all the key players in one of the worst chapters of his life were suddenly migrating to his city.

"She will be," Jamie continued. TJ wasn't looking at either of them anymore, his eyes on the ground but his back still clearly up.

"She's coming in Thursday night, and staying the weekend. TJ's gonna stay so he can ambush her on Friday."

Booth raised an eyebrow. Finally, TJ broke his silence. He tried to stand, stumbled a little, but didn't take Booth's hand when he offered to help.

"I wasn't gonna ambush her, for Christ's sake," he muttered. "Jesus, Jamie, you're always so fucking dramatic. I just need to talk to her."

"Because you think she can tell you something about your father?" Booth asked.

"Or something about Phillip, at least. I think she knows something, but she's not talking."

"So, you've talked to her about this before then?" Jared asked. Booth always forgot his brother wasn't actually a kid anymore. And these days, he did seem to know his way around a case.

"Yeah," TJ confirmed. "But Doug or Caleb are always hanging around, so I don't think she's telling me everything."

Doug and Caleb were the senator's grown sons –Booth had gotten more than his fill of both of them back in Oregon last summer.

"But in DC, she's suddenly gonna spill her guts?" Booth asked doubtfully.

TJ shot him a look. His nose had stopped bleeding finally, but it was already swollen, his left eye half shut and his top lip about twice the normal size.

"She might say something she didn't before, if I ask right."

Booth didn't care much for the sound of that. "Or else she'll throw your ass in jail, and get a restraining order so you can't get within fifty feet to ask her the next time out."

"If you've got a better idea, we're all ears," Jamie said.

Booth gave it some thought. "Let me go." It was the best he could come up with. "I'll tell her I'm asking a few questions to get you out of my hair, get on her good side. See what I can find out."

"And you really think she'll tell you something she wouldn't tell me?" TJ asked.

Booth rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Mary Fuckin' Sunshine, I do. But here's the deal: I talk to the senator, and you go the hell back to Oregon. I'll call you on Friday and let you know what I find out."

TJ hesitated. For the first time, Booth actually felt a little sorry for the guy. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes bloodshot and his trendy goatee spotted with blood.

"I can't leave like this," the writer said. Quiet. He wasn't being an asshole, Booth realized; he was just trying to hang on.

Jamie looked at TJ, then at Booth. "What if he just stays 'til Friday? I'll stay with him – make sure he doesn't get in any trouble. He won't go near the senator, and he sure as hell won't go anywhere near Temperance." She looked to TJ for confirmation. A second or two passed before he nodded.

"Okay – yeah, that's fine." He took a breath. "I just need something to take back with me – I can't show up in Portland with less than I came out here with."

Booth considered it for a while, then finally nodded. He thought for a second about the bad judgment calls he'd made before: guys he'd trusted who'd nearly done Bones in because he'd let them get too close. Because he'd invited them into her life. He didn't trust TJ, but there was something in his gut telling him the writer wasn't a man who'd hurt Bones. He might do a number on himself, but Booth doubted TJ would ever really hurt anyone else.

But then, his gut had been wrong before.

He swallowed past the doubt, and focused on Jamie for a second.

"Take him back to the hotel or wherever you guys are staying, and get him cleaned up. And I swear to Christ, if I'm wrong about this and he does anything to the senator or so much as breathes the same air as Bones, this isn't gonna end well."

Jamie nodded. "I won't let him out of my sight."

From there, Jared took Booth home and put him to bed. Before dawn the next morning, Booth woke with his gut churning and his head pounding, shoes by the bed and a glass of water and some aspirin on the nightstand. Apparently, their old man had done a good job teaching both Booth boys how to take care of a drunk. His keys were on the table, which begged the question, How the hell did Jared get home last night? Booth had passed out as soon as they got back to his place; he didn't remember a damned thing after that.

A shower and shave followed by about three cups of coffee didn't do much to restore Booth's mood. Though it was pretty clear who'd won the fight the night before, the goose egg on his temple made it a lot harder for him to just pretend the whole thing hadn't happened. Trying to explain it to Bones – especially after all the other shit they were trying to get through – wasn't something he was looking forward to.

He was on the road by six o'clock, his head slowly starting to clear. The revelation about Black Ridge and the likely connection that TJ had come up with back at the lab seemed like it had come about a thousand years ago, but in reality it had been so recent that Booth hadn't even started following up on it yet. Some lead investigator he was: a detail that could bust the case wide open, and he was too distracted fighting with Bones to even call it in.

Instead of going straight to the Hoover the way he knew he should, Booth found himself driving to the Jeffersonian instead. It crossed his mind that maybe he should stop at Bones's apartment first, but he knew her too well – she wouldn't be there. Chances were, she'd headed back to the lab the second Booth was gone last night.

Seeing her car in its usual parking space in the Jeffersonian garage made him feel strangely better. Whatever else was going on between them, whatever damage he'd done, he still knew her. He stopped at the Jeffersonian's botanical gardens' greenhouse on the way to her office and picked half a dozen roses that were probably rare or endangered or something, pricking his finger on a thorn and mucking up his shoes in an arboretum display on the way out. Checked his reflection in the window and winced at sight of the bruise on his temple and the circles under his eyes, but pushed past all that.

He kept going.

Bones was in her office. Just like he'd guessed, she had slept there – her hair was still wet from the decontamination shower, a blanket folded on her couch and her clothes a little rumpled. She was at her desk when he came in, working on something on the computer. Booth knocked on the door and she turned, just a shadow of the welcome he used to see in her eyes when he'd come in.

As soon as she saw the bruise, even that tiny trace of welcome disappeared. She stood and came to him, a wrinkle in her forehead.

"What happened?"

He smiled – or tried, anyway. "Ran into a door," he tried joking. The wrinkle didn't disappear.

"It's highly improbable that a door would leave that type of abrasion." She studied him for a second. Though she was closer now, she still hadn't touched him; she stood maybe a foot away, her arms folded over her chest.

"Did you get in a fight?"

There was a second where he thought about denying it, but one look at her told him that would be a bad move.

"It was stupid."

"Did you go to the hospital? You could have a concussion."

"I'm okay, Bones."

She didn't say anything to that, but he had a feeling she didn't believe him. He wasn't sure he believed himself.

"These are for you."

He handed her the roses, but he felt stupid as soon as he did – it was such a cliché. Not the kind of thing you did when you'd fucked up with a woman like Temperance Brennan.

She looked at them in surprise. "Thank you." Her smile was polite – not a real one, more the kind he'd seen her give strangers or the bigwigs at those Jeffersonian fundraisers she hated so much. Not a Bones smile.

"What was your fight about?" she wanted to know, once she'd put the flowers on her desk.

He looked away, more nervous by the second. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go – it wasn't supposed to be this early in the morning, the sun just rising outside her window. She wasn't supposed to be this cool. He wasn't supposed to be this hung over.

"It's not important, Bones. I met up with TJ last night – "

Her eyes widened, eyebrows climbing her forehead. "And you fought with him?"

"I told you, Bones – it was stupid. If it makes a difference, he threw the first punch."

From the look on her face, it was pretty clear it didn't.

"Is he all right? If you look like this, then I expect – "

"He's tougher than he looks," Booth cut her off. There was more bitterness than he'd meant in the words, and she stopped short. Took a step away from him.

"We should talk," she said quietly.

Booth nodded. "Yeah, I know. Can you get away? Maybe we could grab some breakfast at the Diner?"

She shook her head. He felt that little knot of dread tighten in his chest.

"We can talk here. It won't take long."

Shit.

He sat down on the arm of the couch; she stayed standing. Through the glass walls, he could see the lab coming to life – a few squints running around doing squinty things, even this early. Pretending they weren't all watching everything going on in Bones's damned fishbowl of an office.

"I know things have been kind of tense since I got back – " he started.

She shook her head again. For the first time, he saw her start to lose that cool façade she'd worked up to. She wiped her palms on her lab coat, her eyes drifting. How many times had she practiced what she was about to say, he wondered?

"I'm going to stay with Angela for a few days," she told him.

His heart fell. "I thought we could get some time together this weekend."

"We have the case – you shouldn't be distracted from that. And neither should I."

"Bones, I'm gonna be a hell of a lot more distracted if I don't know what's going on with us – "

She looked at him then, her eyes so damned sad that he just wanted to take her out of there. Promise her anything, give her the world, just to see her smile again.

"I'd just like time to think. Time to concentrate. We have a very complicated case right now – you said yourself that you would be consumed with it for a while. And I find myself spending more time dissecting your words and interpreting your silences than actually focusing on the victims on my table."

He had no clue what to say to that. She was being honest – a hell of a lot more honest than he'd had the balls to be so far, and he knew that. Her pretty eyes filled.

"We aren't us anymore," she finally said. He waited for her to explain, but the words just hung there for a long, long time.

"What does that even mean, Bones?" He kept his voice soft, trying to get her back. "Who else are we? C'mon – of course we're us."

"No, we're not. I mean, literally we're of course the same people. But our friendship…" She paused, working up to something. Her eyes skated from his again; she bit her lip, so hard Booth thought it must have to hurt.

"I don't know what I did – Cam says it isn't anything, that this is merely the way you function in an intimate relationship. But – "

"Cam said what?" he asked, louder than he'd meant to. She shot him a look that stopped him dead, and he clamped his mouth shut.

"You don't talk to me anymore. You pretend everything is fine, when it's clear that something's bothering you. Before we began a sexual relationship, you trusted me – I felt as though you'd tell me anything. As though I could believe everything you said."

Her voice broke, and the words cut straight through him. "And now, Bones?"

"Now…" She had to fight to get her cool back, and it took every ounce of willpower Booth had not to go to her and beg then and there. She cleared her throat. Steadied herself.

"Now, I feel as though I've done something to violate your trust, but I don't know what. And I can't ask you about it, because you're simply dismissive. Everything about us is good – the sex is very satisfying, I have a good time with you and with Parker…" Her voice broke again on Parker's name, a couple of tears spilling down her cheeks. She brushed them away impatiently.

"I just need time to think this weekend. And I'd like you to think about it, as well – because…" She stopped. Brushed away more tears, and took a big breath before she looked him in the eye. "Perhaps if you can't trust me, it would be better for you to be with someone else. Someone like Rebecca, or Cam – someone easier to talk to. Someone who's better at all of this than I am."

He went to her then – bridged the gap and pulled her to him. She resisted for a second, but then curled her arms around him and lay her head in the crook of his neck. He could feel tears falling there, warm and wet on his skin.

"Bones, I don't want to be with anybody else. There's nobody on the planet I want like I want you."

She didn't say anything. He stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head. Against everything screaming for him to shut the fuck up, he kept going.

"Is this about TJ?"

And just like that, the bond between them was broken. She pushed away from him, her eyes shining and tears wet on her cheeks.

"Are you being serious? This has nothing to do with TJ – I keep telling you that. I've never lied to you, so when I say I have no romantic interest in anyone else, why can't you believe me?"

She took another long, deep breath. A second or two passed in silence, Booth standing there with her tears still wet on his neck.

"I know we're in the middle of a case, so if there's anything you need to discuss, you can of course contact me." Her voice had gone cold. All business. "I'll be in the lab for a good portion of the weekend, in all likelihood. I just ask that you please respect what I've asked. Unless it's about the case, I would prefer that we don't speak for a few days."

He shifted. Started toward her, but she backed off. After a second or two, he nodded. Tried to keep his voice level, but it sounded raw. Naked.

"All right, Bones. Whatever you want. We can talk Monday?"

She nodded. "Yes. I should be ready by Monday."

He didn't ask what, exactly, she'd be ready for. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

* * *

Booth sat in the truck for a good twenty minutes after his talk with Bones, trying to figure out what his next move was supposed to be. Should he go back in? Tell her he was sorry, he was a miserable bastard, he didn't deserve her but he'd do anything to keep her, all the same?

The look in her eye when he'd said the thing about TJ made him think none of those things would impress Bones much. No – it wouldn't make a difference how sorry he was; she needed time to cool down and get some distance. It was the idea that she'd have that time while TJ was still in DC that Booth was having a hard time swallowing.

Once he was back at the Hoover, it didn't take long for Sweets to track him down. As soon as the kid saw him, he got that serious shrink look on his face. Closed the door carefully behind him, and just stood there until Booth finally looked up from his paperwork.

"Don't even start," he said, before Sweets could say a thing.

"Dr. Saroyan just told me – "

Booth took a deep breath and let it out, nice and slow. Not even eight a.m., and the Jeffersonian gossip mill was already at it. He looked up and met Sweets's eye.

"I'm serious, Sweets. I don't wanna talk about it. I can't make it much clearer than that. I. Don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It."

Sweets didn't make a move to leave. All of a sudden, Booth felt the weight of the past week like a hundred pound hammer to the back of the head. He kind of sagged in his chair.

"Please," he finally managed. It sounded raw, too much like begging, but it did the trick. Sweets nodded.

"All right. But I just – I mean, I'm here for you, you know. If you want to talk, or go bowling or something… Anything."

Booth managed a smile. "Thanks, Sweets – I know. I'm just gonna keep working. Bones and me… We'll figure things out."

The psychologist nodded, and something about how confident he seemed gave Booth more hope than he'd felt in days.

"I know you will. You'll find your way back to each other."

Booth's eyes actually got misty at that, which either meant he was so tired he was about to drop or he was more lovesick than he'd thought. He looked down and cleared his throat, waving toward the door.

"Get out – go. I'll talk to you later."

* * *

After spending the morning learning everything he could about Black Ridge, Booth got a call just after noon from the Montpelier cop who'd notified the Billings family about their son. Trying to conduct an interview secondhand twice removed with parents who'd just lost their only child proved a little beyond him, though. The cop – Jason Avery, someone Booth didn't know all that well but had heard good things about – could only give him a vague description of what had happened when he'd talked to the parents, and none of it was all that helpful.

"What about the Black Ridge connection?" Booth pressed for at least the fourth time.

There was maybe a five second silence on the phone – long enough for Booth to think they'd either been disconnected or Avery didn't really know what the hell he was doing, and now he was just making shit up to get the FBI off his back.

"They'd never heard of it – I told you," he said.

"Neither of them? This Billings guy is from Tennessee, right? And he's a cop – he _never _heard of Black Ridge?"

Another pause. Finally, Avery broke. "Look, I didn't ask them, okay? I don't do this kind of thing all that often – and I've never had to tell a friend of mine that his kid's never coming home. Hell, my kid used to play baseball with Arnie – I'm sorry, sir, but I can't do an interrogation like that."

They spent another few minutes going around in circles before Booth finally gave up.

"You guys have an airport somewhere up there?" he asked, just before they hung up.

"Yeah," Avery said immediately. "In Burlington – it's about an hour from here. Listen, I'm sorry I dropped the ball on this. I just – "

Booth sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Nah, forget it – this wasn't your job. I should've been there. Just do me a favor and don't let them know I'm coming, okay?"

The cop got defensive at this, something Booth had been sensing pretty much since the conversation started.

"Look, you're nuts if you think Billings had anything to do with this. He adored that kid."

"I know, I know," Booth tried reassuring him, even though he didn't know at all. One of the hardest things he'd learned doing this job was all the shitty things parents did to kids they claimed to adore. "It's just standard procedure – I want a chance to talk to them without having 'em overthink all the questions beforehand."

His answer seemed to be enough for Avery, who finally agreed to keep his mouth shut. Booth hung up the phone and took a second to gather his wits, then stood and got ready to head out.

Again.

Booth made one phone call on his way to the airport, relieved to find he actually had the number he was looking for stored in his cell.

Hodgins answered on the second ring.

"Booth?" the man asked, sounding a little freaked out.

"Yeah, Hodgins, it's me. Listen, is Bones there?"

A second's pause. "Uh – yeah. I mean, I'm in my office – she's up on the platform with Wendell and Cam. You need me to get her?"

"No," Booth said, too fast.

Hodgins didn't say anything, but Booth could practically hear his question in the silence. He slowed down, shaking his head at himself.

"I mean – don't bother, I'm sure she's busy."

Hodgins kind of sniffed at that. "Yeah, right – Listen, no offense, but what the hell's going on? Ange says Dr. B's coming to stay with us… We've got dead kids all over the lab, and you've made like Jimmy Hoffa all day."

"I'm not making like Jimmy Hoffa, all right? It's… It's nothing, we're just working some stuff out right now. But I've gotta leave town for the night to follow up on a lead, and I just need to make sure Bones is, y'know…"

"Safe?" Hodgins guessed.

His voice had gotten quieter, like all of a sudden he knew where Booth was coming from. Booth swallowed past a lump in his throat that came out of nowhere.

"Yeah," Booth said roughly. "You still have security at your place?"

The scientist laughed, like the question was crazy. "Dude, we've got more security than the Pentagon. The place is a fortress – guards, cameras, dogs. We make it look nice and friendly from a distance, but trust me, that's just for appearances."

The words made him feel better immediately. "Good. I wondered – I mean, I can't actually pay for it, but I thought maybe you might have a couple extra guys…" he trailed off, hating that he couldn't offer something in return for what he was asking.

"You mean to follow Brennan?" Hodgins asked. "Yeah, of course. No problem. I'll get a couple of our best men on it."

Booth had pulled into airport parking, but he stayed in the truck talking to Hodgins instead of going in, even though he was running late.

"So, you uh – You trust these guys, right?" he asked.

"Yeah – yeah, definitely. My folks started using the agency when I was a kid, and these guys get paid top dollar. They take the job very seriously, trust me. I mean, hell, they still come after half Angela's friends when they show up. And Zack? Forget it, man, they stopped him at the gate every damn night."

Booth managed a little laugh. "Yeah, well, I guess they weren't too far off on that one, huh?"

Hodgins returned the laugh, but not by much. "Yeah," he said, sounding a little rough himself. "Yeah, I guess they weren't."

Another couple seconds passed, while Booth got out of the truck and slung his bag over his shoulder. For some reason, he hated the idea of hanging up – which went to show just how screwed up he was these days, if the bug and slime guy had turned into some kind of lifeline for him.

"So, Bones… She's okay? I mean, she seems all right?"

Hodgins was quiet for a second. "Yeah – she's all right. Just a little, you know…"

"A little…?" Booth prompted.

Hodgins sighed. "Sad, man. She's a little sad. Look, I've gotta go, they're calling me. Just come back soon, okay? And fix this shit, because this really sucks."

"Yeah," Booth agreed. "You don't know the half of it."

The airport was packed. He'd gotten a flight for 2:30, and it was already five past. One of the advantages to being a Fed was that he didn't have to spend three hours in a security line, but showing up twenty minutes before the plane took off still wasn't a great idea.

Once he was in the air, he did what he'd been doing all day: he pushed Bones as far to the back of his head as he possibly could, and focused on the case. The bodies.

The kids.

Cramped in business class between a snoring old woman and a surly young guy, Booth got out his files and got to work. Werner hadn't been impressed with him showing up exhausted and banged up that morning, but he had been impressed with the Black Ridge connection. At least now they had a place to start.

Booth's memory of the Ridge the night before had been pretty spot on, once TJ brought it up. After more than nine hundred people died at the hands of Jim Jones in his encampment in Guyana in November of 1978, people around the country started getting squirly about communes, cults, militias, pretty much any kind of separatist or fringe group out there. Booth had only been a kid at the time, but he'd read about Black Ridge later, in college and during his training with the Bureau. It was kind of a cautionary tale about how much damage somebody with a little power could do, once they tossed the rules aside and started following their own brand of justice.

Booth might get fed up with all the red tape bullshit that went along with his job, but he did his best to remember the lesson that something like Black Ridge taught: The rules were there for a reason.

The sheriff of a town called Welland, Kentucky, and three of his deputies went up to Black Ridge with a handful of local guys ten days after the Jonestown massacre, because there was a militia group rumored to be stockpiling food and weapons. Booth couldn't find any records on who'd been part of the militia other than the deceased – as far as he could tell, the cops never bothered to find that out before they went up there, and there'd been too much chaos afterward to get details. Once they got to the Ridge, the cops tried to get everyone out of the Black Ridge cabins with teargas; one of the kids inside panicked and threw a frypan through the window to get out. The glass shattered; the sheriff and his posse thought they were under fire. They started shooting.

Five kids and a pregnant mother died – Hodgins had at least gotten that part right last night.

That morning, Booth had put in a call to Sheriff Lincoln back in Kentucky, who told Booth that, yeah, he remembered Black Ridge. It was practically in his backyard, though, so there was no big surprise there. He hadn't had anything to do with it, but he knew a couple of the cops who had.

Arnold Billings's father – Don – was originally from Tennessee, which made it pretty likely that he'd at least heard of Black Ridge. But hearing about it and somehow being targeted because of it were two very different things.

Booth studied the stuff he'd printed out on the Ridge for the first hour of the flight. For the second, he went over the files of the four kids who'd died so far.

Izzie Lincoln, Arnold Billings, and the last two – Riley White and Penny Farber. Riley was six, the daughter of a deputy and a county clerk in Wyoming. Fucking Wyoming, for Christ's sake. Penny was five – blue eyes, a pile of blonde curls. Daughter of a deputy in Belmont, Virginia. Booth closed the files as the plane started to descend in Burlington. It was quarter 'til five on Thursday night, and he'd never wanted a case to be over so much in his life.

* * *

Vermont was colder than DC. And snowier. And quieter. Five o'clock on a Thursday night in December, and it was black as midnight. Booth rented a truck and got on I-89 due east, keeping his speed up in spite of the sleet spitting across his windshield. Exits in this part of the world were few and far between, no houses and not a lot of traffic even though it was prime commuting time. Booth drove in the dark, the radio tuned to some fruity station out of Goddard College, just up the road from where the Billings family lived.

Forty minutes later, he pulled into a short tarred driveway just off route 2 in Plainfield. There was about a foot of snow on the ground – out of nowhere, Booth wondered if Bones was a skier. She wasn't much of a skater at first, but she'd caught on after a while; if she didn't ski already, she'd probably pick it up fast. Parker was all about snowboarding these days. Maybe they could make a trip up here some weekend – Sugarbush wasn't far, and the idea of spending a couple days on the slopes followed by a couple nights in a hot tub and a queen sized bed sounded like a better heaven than he'd imagined in a long time.

When Janie Billings answered the door, Booth did a freefall back to earth. He and Bones might not even spend another night together in his crappy apartment, forget some fancy resort in the mountains. He was here to interview a woman who'd just lost her only kid – a woman whose family had fallen apart and who, by the look of her, was about to do the same herself.

He stood up straighter, holding up his badge for her.

"Ms. Billings, I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth. I'm so sorry for your loss."

She opened the door wider, and he followed her inside.

Janie Billings was a thin woman – maybe 5'7", with dark hair and dark eyes. Pretty, in a quiet, understated kind of way. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and she held a crumpled Kleenex in her left fist like it had been there so long she'd forgotten about it.

The house was a single-story modular, neat bordering on compulsive. Three roses were in a glass vase on a dark maple dining room table. There were no pictures on the walls, and two half-empty boxes pushed off to the side. Janie Billings was just moving in.

"Have a seat," she told him once they'd gotten the niceties out of the way, nodding to a chair at the table. "Can I get you a drink? I called Don – he should be here in a few minutes."

Booth sat down. The woman poured herself a scotch that looked like heaven, but Booth shook his head. "Water'd be great, thanks. So, you and Mr. Billings are… separated?"

"Divorced," she corrected him. "Things just got too… hard, I guess, after Arnie…" she stopped and took a drink. Wet her lips.

"What happened to your head?" she asked suddenly, changing the subject.

Booth touched a finger to his temple, rolling his eyes. "It was a work thing. You know how it goes."

For a second, he thought she might call him on the lie. Instead, her eyes wandered back to the unpacked boxes in the corner.

"Don kept our place – he always used to say Arnie should have a home to come back to, once they found him."

Booth shifted in his seat. She was sitting across the table from him; she had a dancer's posture, her hands crossed delicately in her lap. Booth was reminded of the ballerina in a music box his mom used to have.

"I'm very sorry, Ms Billings – "

"Janie," she corrected him. "Please." She met his eye. "Do you know who did it?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. We've got some leads, though – which is why I'm here."

Don Billings came in without knocking a little later, and took off his boots at the front door. He was shorter than his ex-wife by about two inches, stocky and barrel-chested, with red hair and pale green eyes. He came over and kissed Janie on the cheek, whispering loud enough for Booth to hear,

"You holding up okay, Janes?"

She started to cry.

Booth sat at the table like a wooden statue, his eyes ducked respectfully while Don hugged the mother of his child and the two of them cried.

A few minutes passed like that before Janie excused herself to make tea. Don sat down in the seat she'd just left, wiping his eyes. He looked embarrassed, and Booth realized the man couldn't have been more than thirty.

"Sorry – it's been a rough couple of days. You'd think with Arnie being gone so long, we would've been ready. But I guess we just kept hoping…"

Booth shook his head. If it were Parker… He stopped himself. It was too much to even think about.

"Please don't apologize – I can't imagine what you're going through. I'm sorry to disturb you right now, but I just have a few questions."

The deputy drew himself up closer to the table, setting thick forearms on the wood.

"Of course. Whatever I can do."

Booth studied him. "Were you in the military?"

The younger man nodded. "Marines, sir. Janie and I were sweethearts in high school. Stayed together through basic training, then while I was doing my tour. Through college. Through the police academy."

Booth didn't say anything. Don cleared his throat.

"After Arnie disappeared, things got a little tougher. He was…" The policeman stopped. Looked around the room, like he might find the right words floating there. Finally, he gave up. Shrugged, but Booth could tell he couldn't trust his voice yet. Another second passed before he wiped his eyes and cleared his throat one more time.

"I'm sorry. You said you have questions?"

After half an hour dancing around it, Don Billings finally admitted that, yeah, he knew about Black Ridge. More than knew about it: his dad had been one of the cops who stormed the Ridge the night of the raid. It took him a while to admit to the connection – which was understandable, since it was hardly his old man's finest hour. According to Billings, his father left the family a couple months after the shootout. Don was only a year old at the time. His father was found shot dead outside a bar in Houston a few years back; the killer was never found, but Billings and the family assumed it was a bar fight gone bad.

Considering what was happening now, Booth wondered if it was really that simple.

When Booth left Don and Janie that night, they were standing together at the door – leaning against each other, like they'd fall over without the support. There was no question in his mind: you didn't come back from the death of a child. Nothing was ever the same. Still, he hoped somehow the couple would find their way back to each other. There was a lot between them still, it was clear – maybe nothing would ever be the same again, but it would be nice to think the connection they shared didn't have to die with their son.

* * *

In Montpelier, Booth walked the main strip with its Christmas lights and old-school New England vibe: tall brick buildings and snowbanks on every streetcorner, locals bundled up tight and a Salvation Army Santa ringing his bell outside an old movie theatre. He ate dinner alone in a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place that reminded him of Habana, the Cuban place he took Bones to on their first real date.

For a Thursday night, the place was hopping. A neon flamingo was perched above the table he took in the corner, the rest of the restaurant filled with college kids laughing and having a good time. He caught a couple of the girls – good looking snow bunnies, the kind who were probably hell on the slopes and even more so in the sack – looking his way, but made a point of keeping his eyes to himself. He'd been down that road before; he wasn't interested in traveling it again.

After a couple of beef burritos and a couple more Coronas, he settled up and left. The sleet he'd driven through earlier had turned to real snow – fat, wet flakes that dusted his hair and stuck to the shoulders of his wool overcoat. His plane was leaving early in the morning, which meant he should drive back to Burlington and crash there tonight so he'd be ready to go first thing.

Instead, he found a cheap motel just over the bridge in Montpelier and picked up a bottle of whiskey from the gas station across the street. Toted his crap up to his room on the second floor, and dropped everything on the bed. Sat down and took off his shoes.

Stared at his phone.

A shower and three shots of whiskey later, he found he couldn't hold off any longer. Heart on his sleeve and Jack Daniels still warm in his gullet, he dialed.

It took Bones five rings before she answered, and Booth found himself wondering if that was because she was far from the phone or because she was trying to decide whether to pick up once she saw it was him.

"Booth?"

He couldn't tell anything from her voice. At least, not from the one word. Too late to turn back now, he took a breath and answered her.

"Hey."

There was a second of silence. "Hi."

He scratched his neck; took a second to pull some air back into his lungs.

"I just wanted you to know I'm uh – I'm in Vermont. I came to talk to Arnold Billings's folks."

"Cam told me."

She didn't sound cold, at least. Didn't sound pissed off, even. Mostly, she just sounded sad – and a little confused, like she couldn't figure out why he'd be calling.

"Oh. Well, then, I guess… I guess I'll go. I just wanted you to know, in case you – y'know, in case you needed me. Or anything."

"You're in Vermont," she said, letting him know she'd gotten the message.

He let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Yeah. I'm in Vermont."

"Okay." Silence. "Well… Thank you for calling, to let me know."

She was about to hang up when he rushed in.

"So, are you… y'know, are you okay?"

There was a longer silence this time – so long that he thought for one awful second that she'd hung up on him.

"Temperance?" he said, and it came out so soft he wondered if she'd even heard him.

"I told you, I need some time." Her voice sounded rough; he wondered if she was crying.

"I know, ba – Bones," he corrected himself. "I didn't mean to upset you, I just figured I should check in. About the case, I mean."

"Well – thank you."

He started to say something else, except he didn't really know what. All he really knew was he'd do just about anything to keep from hanging up now and losing that strand of a connection between them.

She cut in before he could say anything else.

"I should go – they need me in the lab."

"Right – yeah, sure. Sorry. I'll just talk to you later, then."

"Seeley – " Her voice was full of that warning that he hated, the lecture mode she got into every once in a while that drove him right up a wall.

"I know, Bones – not literally later, okay? It's an expression. I won't call again. Don't worry." He hadn't meant to sound so angry, a bite to his words that he wished he could take back.

"I wasn't worried," she said, the chill back in her voice. "I wasn't worried about you calling again," she explained herself. "I just… " She stopped again. There was dead silence on the line – this time, he was sure she really had hung up on him. Then, finally: "I'm glad you called." The words were quiet, not a trace of ice in them. It felt like she was saying something else, but he wasn't sure exactly what.

"Will you be back tomorrow?"

He closed his eyes. He was sitting on the end of the bed in his boxers, both feet planted firm on the floor. Relief or Corona and Jack Daniels or some combination of the three made his head swim.

"Yeah, Bones. I'll come update everybody when I get back. I'll see you then."

"Yes," she agreed. "I'll see you tomorrow."

They hung up. No 'I love you,' no talk about their days or how much she missed him, none of those dirty little whisperings that could get him hard in seconds, the way she did sometimes when he was gone. Instead, the whole conversation had taken less than three minutes.

Still, she said she was glad he called. That was something, wasn't it? Bones was never any good at lying, especially to him – so when she said she was glad he called, she was telling the truth.

Tonight, that would just have to be enough.

TBC


	7. Chapter Six

The next day, Booth made his flight back to DC by about five minutes, and sat staring out the window for most of the time he should have been doing paperwork. It was cold and snowy in Burlington; warmer and wetter in DC, the snow melted and a steady drizzle falling, when he touched down at the Ronald Reagan airport at ten-thirty. From there, he went straight to the Hoover to meet with Werner.

"Have you talked to Sweets?" Werner demanded, before Booth could say word one about the case.

He shook his head. They were in the Deputy Director's office, Booth's suit more rumpled than he liked and the bump on his noggin big enough to make people look twice.

"Uh – no, sir, not since I left for Vermont yesterday. Is there a problem?"

Werner shot him a glare. The man was usually at least reasonable, but it was pretty clear today that something had gotten his shorts in a twist. Booth could only hope that something didn't have anything to do with him.

"I'm just having a hard time getting updates since he started this goddamn evaluation," Werner finally told him. "If there's a problem and it turns out you and Brennan don't pass this thing, I need to be in the loop."

Booth stayed quiet, since he hadn't actually been asked a question. Werner raised his eyebrows impatiently.

"So?"

"Uh – so what, sir?" Booth asked. He wasn't trying to be a smartass – it just turned out that no sleep and two bottles of JD in less than forty-eight hours wasn't quite as easy to shake off as it'd been ten years ago.

"_So, _is there a problem?"

The agent shook his head too fast to be believed, then got his cool back after a second or two.

"No, sir – not that I'm aware of. The case is going well, and me and Bones are working together the same way we always do."

The Deputy Director didn't look convinced, but he didn't call Booth on it, either. Instead, he changed the subject back to the case – which, it turns out, was kind of a relief. Within twenty minutes, Booth had updated him on where they stood:

Black Ridge was definitely at the root of the bodies they'd found, as far as he was concerned. The parents of the latest two victims would be at the Hoover that afternoon, and Booth would try to find a link to the Ridge and them once he had a chance to spend some time with them. He was trying to track down surviving members of the Black Ridge militia group that'd been stormed back in '78, but so far all he was coming up with were dead ends. Bones was still working on cause of death, and he was due to meet everyone at the Jeffersonian in half an hour to get an update on how they were doing.

When he was done briefing Werner, the Deputy Director was quiet for a long time. Finally, he fixed Booth with sharp eyes, and Booth couldn't decide whether the man was concerned or annoyed. Maybe a little bit of both.

"I just want to make sure you're taking care of yourself in this thing. It's a bitch of a case – believe me, I know that. But you need to take a step back – don't let it eat you, Seeley. There's too much riding on this for you to go down now. Get some sleep – take a couple hours and hit the shooting range or the hot tub, whatever the hell you do to relax. You're the face of the Bureau in this whole nightmare – I need you looking sharp, not half-dead."

Booth nodded and stood. "Yes, sir. It's been a long week – "

"I don't want excuses, Booth," Werner cut him off, an edge to his words now. "Just get yourself together. We'll all be working this weekend, but if you're leading my men you need to look the part."

This time, he didn't bother trying to explain. Obviously, it was pointless – and he was better than cheap excuses, anyway. He just stood arrow straight like he was back in the Rangers, and nodded again.

"Yes, sir. It won't happen again."

He left Werner's office at a fast clip, wanting to put as much distance between him and the Deputy Director as he could before he did something stupid like go back in and tell the old man exactly what he could do with the job and the case and the whole goddamn Bureau.

Instead, he went to the john and splashed cold water on his face. There were circles under his eyes and he hadn't had time to shave before he left Vermont that morning, which meant a greasy looking five o'clock shadow had taken hold. Getting his overnight bag from his office, he went back to the bathroom and shaved himself clean. Changed into a fresh shirt he kept in his office, and a new tie for good measure.

When he was done, he stared at himself in the men's room mirror one more time.

"Pull it together, Seeley," he whispered to himself.

The man staring back at him stood tall. Good looking, athletic, clean shaven. And haunted, in ways Booth was suddenly pretty sure he'd never be able to erase.

He turned his back on the image, grabbed his things, and left the room.

It was time to hit the Jeffersonian.

When he got to the lab, the four kids' skeletons were laid out on tables on the platform, Bones and Wendell working on something over the smallest of the four. Booth swiped his ID card and forced himself not to take the steps two at a time, just to get to Bones faster.

Maybe it should have made him feel better that she didn't look any better than he did, but it didn't. Her hair was in its usual work ponytail, but there were dark circles under her blue eyes and her clothes were just a little rumpled, her face kind of drawn.

Before she could get her emotions under control or let that cool work-mode Bones mask fall, he saw her smile when she caught sight of him – just a flash, a little spark in her eyes that Booth knew he hadn't just imagined. Suddenly, half a dozen things that had seemed unbearable five minutes ago weren't all that bad.

He smiled back at her. "Hey, Bones." Relieved that his voice sounded normal – same old Booth, same old Bones.

Wendell looked at both of them and the idea that everything was normal as pie went out the window. The intern's eyes got a little wide, an uncomfortable smile on his lips while he looked around like he'd just as soon jump out a window than stay in the same room with the two of them.

"Wendell," Booth said, with an even nod.

"Hey, Booth," Wendell said, still looking around for an exit. "Well, I guess I should just, you know, uh…" He went blank for a second, and Bones looked at him like she thought he was nuts.

"I asked if you would bring the samples to Hodgins to run for traces of lead," she finally reminded him.

"Yeah!" Wendell agreed, nodding. "Right, you did – so, that's what I'm gonna do. Now. Good to see you, Booth."

"Yeah, you too." He gave Wendell a nod as the kid was rushing off, then turned to Bones.

"I just came to get the update," he said, in case she was getting ready to freak out that he was there.

She nodded, a flicker of what he thought was maybe disappointment in her eyes.

"Of course," she said. Her voice was cool, but not cold. She went over to a light box and turned it on, and four sets of dental x-rays lit up at once.

Booth went over and stood beside her. Their shoulders touched, and they stayed that way for maybe half a second before she moved. It was a little thing, but it still hurt. She cleared her throat.

"These are the dental films for the four victims. You'll note here – " she moved closer, pointing to a spot on the front teeth of each of the films, "that there's an area where the enamel has been chipped on both the top and the bottom incisors."

Booth thought about it for a second before he finally shook his head. "Sorry, Bones, you're gonna have to spell it out for me. They all have chipped teeth – what's that mean to us?"

She turned the light back off and nodded. "That's not the best method of explanation, anyway." A second of silence passed, while she seemed to be trying to work something out in her head. Finally, she sighed.

"This is ridiculous. Follow me."

He didn't know what, exactly, was ridiculous – but it seemed like it didn't actually have anything to do with him for a change, so he was grateful. They went to Angela's office, where the artist was standing in front of one of her paintings, just staring at it. When she saw the two of them coming in, she set her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Ange," Bones opened. The way she said it made it sound like they were continuing a conversation Booth hadn't been part of before. One that hadn't gone all that well so far.

"I told you, I'm not going near that thing again. Get Jack to do it. Or Cam. Hell, Booth can do it for all I care."

Booth looked at Bones, hoping for an explanation. "What am I supposed to be doing, exactly?"

Bones sighed. "They can't do it. I can't do it. It's called the Angelator for a reason, Ange – you know how to run it."

"I don't care, Brennan. All right? I showed you – I'm not looking at it again. Fire me, I don't care. You'd probably be doing all of us a favor."

"Angela, you're being illogical – "

The artist's chin was up and her jaw set, but Booth could tell she was about two seconds from losing it. He took a step toward her, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

"Sorry, Ange, but I think I came in about fifteen minutes before the credits on this one. You mind getting me up to speed?"

She kind of laughed and cried at the same time, brushing away a tear. It was just the three of them in the office, the Angelator glowing misty gold in an otherwise semi-dark room. Booth turned to Bones.

"Why don't you go grab Hodgins," he said quietly. "Give us a couple minutes."

Bones actually looked relieved. She was about to say something else about how unreasonable Angela was being, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, she clamped her mouth shut and left without another word.

When they were alone, Booth nodded toward her chair.

"Why don't you have a seat, and tell me what's up."

He expected a fight, but all of a sudden it seemed like all the fight had gone out of her. She slumped to her seat and brushed away her tears.

"I don't know how they do this," she finally said, once she'd gotten her voice. "Or how you do. Maybe that's the better question – you actually have a soul, you don't have some bizarre science brain that cuts the world into perfect little pieces that never actually touch you. How do you do this?"

Booth thought about the question honestly for a while before he answered – Angela was a friend, she at least deserved him to be straight with her. He grabbed a chair and turned it backward, straddling it with his arms resting on the back.

"You mean, how do I talk to the parents of kids younger than Parker, and tell them their son or daughter's never coming home again? Or how do I look at everything that's been done to those kids and still get up and face another day every morning? Or how do I catch the monsters who do what they do, and not get lost in all that crazy darkness myself?"

She kind of laughed when he was done – a dark laugh, not much humor to it. "All of the above, I guess."

He thought some more. Took a deep breath, and let it out. Shrugged. "I do it because somebody has to, or they win. I do it because I have people I love, and if something ever happened to Parker or Bones and I wasn't there, I'd want to know that a team like ours was out there moving heaven and earth to find them. I do it 'cause I'm good at it." He paused, and looked her in the eye. "And so are you."

She didn't say anything for a while, big tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

"We know how they died," she finally managed, choking on the words.

Booth nodded, his heart breaking a little at her pain. "I figured."

A second more passed before she wiped away her tears and took a shaky breath.

"You ready?" he asked.

Another second before she nodded, turning her back on him to fuel up her computer. "I'm ready. But I swear to god, if my baby grows up to be a serial killer because of all this, I'm suing all of you."

He smiled, then leaned over and kissed her cheek before he turned to join the others. While they'd been talking, Bones, Hodgins, Cam, and Sweets had come in and now were standing off to the side, waiting for the Angelator to do its thing.

"Nice work, Seeley," Cam mouthed once he was standing in between her and Bones.

Bones stayed quiet, but he noticed her watching him a couple of times before they got started. Their eyes met, and she gave him a shy smile that widened to a reluctant grin when he bumped her shoulder. She bumped him back, and they stood that way – together but just barely – until the scenario they'd been waiting for began to play out. Once it did, everything else pretty much disappeared.

"All four victims were taken from public places," Cam started them out. "Which means, according to Sweets and the FBI profiles, the perp was probably not someone the kids knew. They were likely lured to a vehicle of some kind, and then…"

A skeleton appeared in the Angelator, floating in the dust and light of the lab. In less than a second, the skeleton grew muscles, then skin, then clothes. Dark hair , glasses, and chubby cheeks.

Izzie Lincoln.

Booth felt himself go cold.

Another figure appeared behind her – an adult, no face and no features, and Booth's chest tightened.

"There are two common threads to the four bodies," Bones picked up. "Aside from them being Caucasian adolescents, of course. All four have damage to their upper and lower incisors, indicating some type of traumatic event significant enough for them to clamp down with sufficient force to damage the enamel and underlying dentition."

"Okay, so we're back to the chipped teeth," Booth interpreted.

"Precisely," Bones agreed. "The second commonality is the RTR insignia, which can be found on the clavicles of three of the victims and the femur of Arnold Billings."

Izzie Lincoln and her attacker had been hovering in mid-air while Bones gave the back story. Now, they came back to life.

"From the evidence we've gathered so far and tissue samples taken from the latest victims, this is the scenario we've posited is the most likely to have transpired."

The figure behind Izzie leaned down and clamped a hand over the little girl's mouth. In his right hand, he held a needle that he jabbed into her neck. A second later, the virtual Izzie started to shake like she was convulsing; the figure held her until she stopped, then traded the needle for some kind of metal thing about the size of a magic marker. Izzie was slumped in her arms when the figure jabbed the weapon deep into her chest.

Halfway through the scenario, Booth got lightheaded, his stomach twisted in a solid knot. He clenched his fists and forced himself to stay steady, eyes straight ahead, 'til the thing played out. When it was done, he turned his back on the holograph and tried to get a hold of himself. It took maybe a milli-second before he realized that wasn't gonna work this time. Moving fast, he left the room and made for the bathroom, practically knocking Wendell on his ass on the way.

After he'd lost pretty much everything he'd had in his system for the past week, he straightened up, flushed, and left the stall.

Bones was waiting for him at the sink, her eyes wide. A little scared.

"Bones, this is the men's room – you're not supposed to be in here."

"You've never vomited before when we've gone over the details of a case," she said, straight off. Apparently, she wasn't too concerned with the whole men's room thing.

Booth rinsed his mouth out and splashed a little cold water on his face. "Yeah, well… I've never had a case like this."

"We've solved the murders of children before," she insisted. "We've had cases that you found emotionally difficult. Are you sick?"

She came closer and he let her feel his forehead, not because he thought he might have a fever but because, all of a sudden, he'd never needed anything so much as he needed to feel her hands on him.

"You're not warm," she told him. The wrinkle was back in her forehead. They stood face to face, not quite touching, and he still felt queasy but that was slowly fading. "Is it because Angela used the Lincoln girl in the scenario? The other day when we were discussing the case with Sweets, you called her by her first name. Sweets thinks you've established an emotional connection – "

"I haven't," Booth cut her off. "I'm all right, okay, Bones? Just let it go."

Another flash of hurt in her eyes, and he realized he'd managed to screw up yet again. She took a step back. "Are you all right to finish the briefing?" she asked, back to cool once more.

He wanted to say no. Wanted to apologize, to give her… something, because he knew she kept putting herself out there and all he did was shut her down. Instead, he just nodded.

"Yeah – I'm fine. Just give me a sec and I'll be right there."

When he got back to Angela's office, everybody was a little too quiet. He knew he should make some kind of joke, but all of a sudden there didn't seem like all that many things left in the world to laugh at.

"Sorry – bad clams," he finally quipped. "So, would somebody mind explaining what the hell we just saw?"

He caught Angela's eye and half-expected her to say 'I told you so,' but it seemed he wasn't the only one who'd run out of jokes. Cam was the one who finally picked up where they'd left off.

"The branding weapon isn't exact – it must be homemade, because we've looked everywhere and we can't find anything on the market that matches our criteria. Based on the size of the insignia and the force with which it was jammed into the bone, it should be just about that size."

"So, what about the needle? What the hell did this guy give them?" Booth asked. He wasn't sure he wanted the answer.

They all looked at Bones, who Booth figured should have her King of the Lab smile going. Mostly, though, she just looked tired.

"Drugs," she explained. "We were able to get enough tissue samples from the last two victims to run the necessary tests. There were traces of embutramide, choroquine, and lidocaine in both samples."

Booth shook his head to indicate that he didn't have a fucking clue what she was talking about.

"It's a combination of drugs known as Tributame – commonly used to euthanize livestock like horses and cattle," she explained.

He jotted down a couple of notes, buying himself some time while he thought this over. "So, how easy is it to get your hands on that stuff?"

"Not easy at all," Cam answered. "They're controlled substances, typically only available to veterinarians."

"Whether this individual was a veterinarian or simply someone who obtained the drugs illegally, he knew very little about human physiology," Bones added. Booth didn't say anything, waiting for her to go on.

"Whoever did this used enough to kill a small horse, and never took into account the differences between the cardio-voracic system of an equine versus that of a human."

"And that's why we saw the convulsions?" Booth asked, writing more notes.

"The drugs are designed to first put the animal to sleep, and then induce cardiac arrest. The fatal components of the cocktail far outweighed those meant to serve as anesthetic, however, and cardiac arrest was so severe that it caused a grand mal seizure prior to death."

"And that caused the chipped teeth," Booth finished for her. She nodded, arms crossed over her chest and her eyes lowered.

Everybody went quiet for a long while after that. Finally, Booth looked at Sweets, who'd been silent pretty much since he arrived.

"So, what does this do to your theory that this nut job didn't want the kids to suffer?"

The psychologist thought for a few seconds before he shook his head, giving a little bit of a shrug.

"I believe this further validates that theory. The whole idea of putting an animal to sleep is meant to be an act of mercy – not that he views killing the children as merciful, necessarily. But I still think this is about the cause, not about the kids who've died."

Booth nodded again. Sick as it sounded, he was pretty sure Sweets was right – this wasn't about torture, somebody getting off on the pain of others. This was about sending a message.

"Okay, so we've got the when, what, why, and the how. Sweets, I need you to give me the who – given what we know now, you think you can work up a complete profile by tonight? Say seven o'clock?"

Sweets nodded. "I can do that. First, though, I wanted to speak with you and Dr. Brennan about – "

Booth started shaking his head before the kid had so much as gotten the sentence out. "Not today. You can tell Werner we were too busy with the case – we'll meet with you on Monday."

He caught Bones's eye and she gave him kind of a sad smile. "Monday's better," she agreed.

It seemed like Sweets had been expecting to be shot down, because all he did was nod. "Right – I'll just put Werner off another couple of days. No big deal. It's not like my career's riding on it or anything…"

"Great," Booth said, choosing to ignore the psychologist's sarcasm. He clapped his hands together to try and get a little movement in the room. "So, that's settled. We're going in the right direction here. I've got a meeting with the parents of the two girls in twenty minutes, and then I've got something else I've gotta do this afternoon. So…" he thought for a second. "That leaves us with the where. Any clue on the location of the dumping ground?"

Hodgins stepped up. "There's kind of a problem with that."

"Yeah, of course there is," Booth said dryly. "No gimmes on this thing, huh?"

Hodgins shook his head. His beard was looking a little scraggly, his hair mountain-man wild. Just like everyone else, he looked beat. Apparently, nobody was gonna get out of this case without paying a price.

"Apparently not," Hodgins agreed. "I've analyzed the particulates on all four victims…"

"And?" Booth pressed.

"And they're all different," the squint said, frustration bleeding through. "I can tell you the general area where each of them was buried, but it's not the same place."

"So there are four different gravesites?" Sweets asked, shaking his head. "You're certain?"

Hodgins rolled his eyes. "No, I'm just puttin' it out there to hear myself talk. Jesus, Sweets… Yeah, I'm sure. Four different gravesites, and they're not even close to each other."

Sweets wrote something down, then turned his attention back to Hodgins. "Could I get a copy of your findings? And Dr Brennan, if I could have your conclusions as to cause of death and mode of attack, that would be helpful in assisting me with the profile, as well."

Both Bones and Hodgins nodded. Booth stayed quiet for a few seconds, trying to figure out what the hell this latest information meant. Four victims, kidnapped in their hometowns in Kentucky, Vermont, Wyoming, and Virginia. Euthanized, then branded, then buried.

Then dug up and dumped in three different state parks right around DC.

"Hodgins, I want you to get me just as close as you can to those four dumpsites. Bones, you think you and Angela could work on pulling together some kind of physical description of this guy based on the damage we've seen to the kids?"

Bones thought about it for a couple seconds. "I suppose if we look at the angle of entry and depth of the insignia, we might be able to determine height and weight. More than that is unlikely, however."

"That's more than we've got right now – sounds good." He checked his watch. "It's quarter past two now. So, we all meet back here with dinner at seven, and we'll go over everybody's findings then."

At two-thirty, Booth met with the parents of Riley White and Penny Farber. It went about as well as could be expected given the reason for the meeting – a lot of tears, some yelling, empty threats, accusations of incompetence within the Bureau. Booth stayed quiet and let everybody wind themselves down, then finally managed to ask his questions.

The fathers of both girls had a strong link to Black Ridge. Scott Farber's old man was another one of the guys who'd stormed the Ridge; after some digging, Jacob White – who'd spent his whole life in Wyoming – remembered a second cousin who, he thought, might have been the doctor on the scene when the pregnant woman died after the firefight. Farber's old man had been killed in a hunting accident fifteen years ago; White had no clue where his second cousin might be.

Neither men knew any large-animal veterinarians with a grudge, though.

The meeting was over by three-thirty, but Booth asked both families to stay in the area for the weekend, in case he had more questions.

When he left the Hoover, the sun was shining and it was warmer than it had been in a couple of weeks – one of those freak winter days in DC that felt more like April than December. Booth didn't exactly have time to soak in the rays, though. Much as he wanted to forget TJ existed, he'd made the guy a promise.

* * *

Which is how he found himself bound for the Ritz-Carlton, hoping to catch Senator Woolrich on her way back from her latest round of senate meetings. Hopefully from there, he'd be able to get whatever it was he needed to convince TJ to get on a goddamn plane and go back where he came from.

The Senator was in the hotel lobby on her way up to her room when Booth got there. Two guards flanked her – private security, well trained by the look of them. She wore a lavender pants suit, her dyed hair piled high above a heavily made-up face. It didn't take more than a second before she'd recognized him.

"Agent Booth!" She stepped away from the guards, a flash of impatience on her face when they followed her. Booth got the feeling suddenly that the extra security might not have been her idea.

"Senator Woolrich," he gave her the old charm smile. "I heard you were in town."

"And here I am." After another couple of seconds of a silent battle of wills between Woolrich and her bodyguards, Booth dug out his ID and flashed it at the men.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth. I just have a couple questions."

"Go on now," the woman shooed the guards away with a flick of her wrist, linking her arm through Booth's. "I'm safe as houses right here. You boys go entertain yourselves for a few minutes."

Once they were out of earshot, Booth quirked an eyebrow at her. She smiled, understanding his silent question without hesitation.

"I'm dating somebody new, and the poor boy suffers from some paranoid delusions about just how important he actually is."

This was the part where Booth was supposed to ask who the new boyfriend was, but he didn't really give a rat's ass. He followed her up to her hotel room, then waited until she'd fixed them both a drink and they were sitting on over-stuffed hotel furniture before he dropped the old friends routine.

"You remember Alan Wright?"

She looked surprised. "TJ's father? Of course. Such a tragic story."

"I was wondering if you remember anything about what was going on back then. You were married to Phillip Taylor when Alan was killed, weren't you?"

And just like that, happy hour was over. The Senator set her drink down on the coffee table. Her face went cold.

"Have you been talking to TJ?"

Booth nodded. Played the part like a pro, letting a little annoyance show on his face. "Yeah – he's been bugging Temperance about this whole thing. Frankly, I'm not crazy about the way he looks at my girlfriend, so I made a deal with him."

"You talk to me, and he leaves town?" she guessed.

"You got it," he said.

The words did the trick; like that, the coolness disappeared. The Senator picked up her drink and settled back in on the couch. Scooted a little closer to Booth, but he pretended not to notice.

"You know, I couldn't quite believe your Dr Brennan was dating a man like you when we met back in Oregon. She seems far too cerebral for a man of your ilk."

"You mean too smart for a guy like me," he interpreted. Then shrugged. "Yeah, maybe she is. But, we do okay all the same. Or we did, until TJ hit town."

The Senator looked him up and down, taking another sip of her drink. She had a martini; Booth had accepted a Coke from the mini-bar, but turned down anything stronger.

"So, what can I do to help?" she finally asked.

Booth didn't wait for her to change her mind. "What can you tell me about Jeanine and Alan Wright? I mean, I know it was a long time ago, but something like that's bound to stick in your mind. It had to be pretty shocking at the time."

Woolrich took a couple seconds to think that over, before she shook her head. "Not terribly, as a matter of fact. Alan was a genius – I mean, the genuine article, the way your Dr. Brennan is a genius. Others said his first novel was a fluke; that he would never again write something so beautiful, so well-received."

She'd gotten kind of a distant, dreamy look to her when she talked about Alan Wright. Booth didn't press her on it, but he also didn't miss the change.

"But you didn't believe that," he prompted.

She shook her head, still lost in the memory. "Not in the least. Alan had the potential to make a great contribution to American literature – far beyond that first novel."

"So, what happened? I mean… It was what, ten years between that first novel and the time he died. I know I'm no writer, but that seems like plenty of time to write the next Great American novel, right?"

It got quiet in the room. They were on one of the top floors, traffic muted somewhere down below. Sirens and bells and the dusky haze of early evening just outside the window. Woolrich looked at him like he was no better than a caveman – which had of course kind of been the point. He didn't let it bother him.

"Ten years might be sufficient for lesser men, but Alan had some formidable obstacles."

Booth took a sip of his Coke. Bided his time. "And was Jeanine one of those obstacles?"

For a second, he thought she wouldn't answer. She looked at him, studying him like maybe she was getting the idea that he wasn't quite so dumb as he was playing. If she suspected anything, she apparently decided to ignore it. Her face got hard – downright ugly. Booth thought of Caleb, the man who'd been Bones's teaching aid back in Oregon. Having a mother like Senator Woolrich was bound to mess a guy up in ways Booth didn't even want to think about.

"Jeanine Wright was common trash, through and through."

Booth raised an eyebrow. Took another sip, but didn't say a word. Sure enough, the Senator wasn't done yet.

"Jeanine was a waitress at one of the dives not far from campus – Alan was a professor at Oregon State at the time. Fifteen years her senior. She got pregnant within a month of their first meeting." Woolrich looked at him pointedly. "I never even believed TJ was Alan's son – but of course Alan refused to listen to me. For a writer, he had an absurd sense of propriety."

"He married her."

Booth found himself more drawn into the story, thinking about the uppity professor trying to do right by a struggling waitress he barely knew. More than that, though, drawn into just how Rebecca Woolrich fit into the puzzle. Based on the way she was acting, it was clear she had way more than a bit part in this whole thing.

Woolrich drained her glass and got up to pour another, turning her back on Booth.

"He married her. They moved into the home Alan's mother left him when they passed – a gorgeous estate not far from where Phillip and I were living. Six months later, she had TJ. Alan stopped writing. Started drinking, with much more than a casual interest." She'd said all this with her back to Booth, fixing her martini. Now, she turned around and took a drink, leaning against the hotel bar. "Life went on."

Booth wondered whether that was actually true.

"There were problems with the marriage, then?"

The Senator kind of snorted at that. "What marriage? The whole thing was a sham from the start. Alan loved Jeanine and he adored TJ, but he knew the entire situation was doomed. In fact," she lowered her voice a little, like someone might be listening, "he was getting ready to leave her."

And like that, Booth knew.

"He was gonna leave her for you."

Woolrich kind of faltered at that. Straightened up a little, blinking fast before she recovered. Booth watched while she tried to decide how to spin this, before she finally nodded, her eyes dead even with his. Her jaw was set, almost like she was challenging him to push her.

"Yes. Phillip and I had been married nearly five years, but things weren't going well." She took another drink, got a bitter little smile on her lips. "All those 'hunting' trips out to the wilds of Washington are hard on a marriage. Jeanine was busy trying to convince everyone she was the model wife and she and Alan the perfect couple. Alan needed someone who could understand the kind of pressure he was under."

"And you could."

She raised her chin a little. "My father was Benton Woolrich."

When Booth didn't show any sign that the name meant anything – which, honestly, it didn't, Woolrich sighed.

"He wrote 'Chronicles of a Future Farmer.' One of the most highly lauded novels on the resurgence of American transcendentalism in the twentieth century."

"Ah," Booth said. "So, you know what it's like to be around a misunderstood genius."

"Certainly more than Jeanine ever did."

Booth hesitated, then decided it was time to cut to the chase. "Do you think Mrs. Wright could've found out about what was going on between you and her husband? And maybe that's what pushed her over the edge?"

Another couple of seconds passed, before the Senator finally nodded. "That has always been my theory, yes."

Something in her eyes when she said it caught Booth. Maybe somebody else wouldn't have noticed, but he'd been dealing with liars for a long, long time. Senator Woolrich was good at it, but it didn't change the fact: She wasn't telling him something. And by the look in her eye, it was something big.

Instead of pushing her on it, which he figured would just make her clam up, Booth decided to let the thing drop for now.

"Well, that makes a little more sense than it did before." He paused, trying to decide whether he wanted to open the next can of worms or not. Finally, he decided what the hell. In for a penny, in for… whatever the hell else came after that.

"Listen, what can you tell me about TJ? Does he seem like a pretty, you know, stable guy?"

Woolrich actually laughed at that one, looking relieved at the change in subject. "Hardly. He was sweet enough as a boy – when he was little, he spent most weekends with Phillip and I, trying to get away from Jeanine and Alan's rages and turmoil."

Booth could only imagine what TJ's home life must've been like to make the Senator and her serial killer husband look like Ozzie and Harriet.

"So, things changed after his dad died?"

"Five years on the run with your murderous mother would understandably leave an impression," Woolrich said dryly. "Of course, he went straight into foster care once Jeanine was imprisoned. Phillip wanted us to take the boy, but I put an end to that fantasy right away."

"And now?" Booth asked. "How would you say his, ah, mental health is these days?"

She thought about it for a second too long, and Booth realized that he was being played. He had no clue what the Senator's game might be, but there was definitely something going on that he wasn't getting.

"Frankly, if I were you, I'd be concerned. From what I've seen and what Caleb and Doug have shared with me, his moods are erratic. His writing has suffered. He's clearly unhealthily obsessed with whatever happened between his parents – which I can understand, I suppose. But he has also developed quite an obsession with your partner."

Booth looked at her, letting her think he'd taken her at her word. "You think he's dangerous?"

Another snort, another drink. Woolrich was getting uglier by the minute, and it didn't have anything to do with her looks.

"Look at what he comes from. As I said, I don't believe for a moment he was actually Alan's child, so who knows what kind of degenerate fathered him. And Jeanine… Well, we know what she was. If I were you, I would get TJ as far from Washington as I could, and I'd do so immediately."

Booth made a show of thinking about this before he set his Coke down on the bar and got ready to go. He was almost to the door before he turned, like he'd just thought of one more question.

"Just one more thing, if you don't mind."

"Of course not. What is it?" Now that their heart-to-heart was over, Woolrich seemed to realize she'd maybe spilled more than she'd meant to. She crossed her arms over her chest, her words as cold as iced steel.

Booth played it cool. "Nothing big. Just a name that came up – a doctor Everett Langford. That ring any bells for you?"

A shadow crossed her face – there for an instant, then vanished a second later. But there all the same.

"Everett Langford," she repeated. Made a big show of thinking it over before she shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. It doesn't ring a bell."

Booth nodded, shrugging it off. "Yeah, I figured probably not, but it never hurts to ask. He was the one who did Wright's autopsy, and it seemed like there were a few things he overlooked when he was doing the reports. Thanks very much for your time, Senator. I really appreciate it."

Before he could high tail it out of the room, Woolrich had a change of heart.

"Langford – of course, now I remember." Her face got dark, and Booth had the feeling that, for the first time since he'd started the interview, she was being straight with him. "Agent Booth, I don't want to tell you how to do your job," which was just the kind of thing somebody said just before they told him how to do his job, "but did it ever occur to you that if something was left out of those autopsy reports, it was left out for a reason?"

"Falsifying an official report – "

"- is a serious offense," she finished for him. "And so if it was done – and I'm not saying it was – it stands to reason that it was done for a reason. Perhaps a reason that would be better left in the past."

Woolrich's security detail bullied their way back into the room before Booth could try to figure out what the hell this last bit of information might mean. He left the Senator with his card and strict instructions to call him if she remembered anything else, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't be hearing from her again unless he tracked her down himself.

From the Ritz, Booth went straight to the dive motel TJ and Jamie were staying at. He wasn't entirely sure _why _TJ Wright – who'd supposedly just signed this huge book deal and was the hottest shit in Oregon these days – was staying in a crappy motel in one of the worst parts of DC, but he just added that to the long list of things he'd probably never understand about the artsy set.

* * *

TJ answered his phone on the first ring, and met Booth at the door of his motel room five minutes later.

"Did you talk to her?" he asked, before Booth had even gotten through the door.

The hotel room was littered with empties and pizza boxes, a pile of board games on a cheap card table in the corner. Apparently, Jamie'd been as good as her word when she said she'd keep an eye on her buddy.

Booth did kind of a double take when he saw TJ standing there, his nose misshapen and his left eye swollen shut.

"Jesus," he said, though he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Jamie walked in from the other room and went straight to TJ, putting an arm around him easily.

"You should see the other guy," she joked, then smiled. "Oh, wait," she said dryly.

Booth touched the fading bruise on his own temple, but TJ just rolled his eyes.

"Spare me. Sure, you lock up bad guys and fight like a stevedore and look like someone who punches a time clock at the Hall of Justice, but I'll bet dollars to donuts you can't finish a whole conversation without ending at least one sentence with a preposition."

He smiled a little, and Booth relaxed. Shrugged. "Yeah, well you got me there. So…"

TJ held out his hand, and Booth shook it. The writer had a solid grip without trying too hard, and even though his face was about six different shades of purple, Booth could tell he was doing better than he'd been the other night.

Thanks mostly to the pretty blonde with her arm around his waist, Booth was willing to bet.

"Take a seat," TJ said, nodding to the table. A game of Scrabble was in progress. Booth sat in a folding metal chair, studying the board; he didn't recognize about half the words on it.

"So, you talked to her," TJ said. He grabbed a beer from the kitchenette fridge, then held one up for Booth, who shook his head. There honestly wasn't anything he would've liked more than a cold one about then, but he had a feeling that one wasn't gonna be close to enough tonight.

"Still working," he said by way of explanation, in case one was required.

Jamie shrugged as she cracked open an over-large can of Guinness. "So are we. See, that's the beauty of being writers."

"Amen to that," TJ said, and knocked his bottle against her can. They both sat down – TJ in another folding chair, Jamie on the edge of the bed just a couple feet away.

"So…" TJ prompted for the third time. The humor fell away. He was trying hard – maybe for Jamie's sake or maybe just to save a scrap of dignity for himself, but he was obviously still invested.

Booth nodded. "I talked to her." He thought for a second, wishing he'd just called in the news. So far, he still hadn't made sense of exactly what Woolrich had told him. What little he could tell TJ about the conversation was hardly worth a sit-down.

He shrugged. "Look, I'm sorry, but she didn't have a lot to say about the whole thing. It wasn't all that enlightening."

TJ's face fell. He slumped back in his chair. For a second, Booth caught the way Jamie was watching her friend, and stored the information for future reference. If she'd been sent by the girlfriend to keep tabs, the girlfriend probably would've been smarter to go with somebody else for the job.

"She's lying," TJ said, quiet now.

"Teej," Jamie said, before Booth could say a word. "It was almost twenty-five years ago. Maybe she just doesn't remember."

Booth thought of all Rebecca Woolrich had actually said. Not remembering was hardly the problem. If he kept his mouth shut, though, he could get TJ on a plane that night and get back to trying to patch things up with Bones. Maybe there was something to the theory that Phil Taylor had been behind Alan Wright's murder, but what the hell did that matter now? Taylor was dead. Both TJ's parents were dead.

He looked at TJ, sitting there fiddling with the letters on the Scrabble board. Thought of Bones, and how it had eaten her alive trying to find out the truth about her folks.

He sighed. "What do you remember about that night?" he asked TJ.

The man looked surprised at the question, a flicker of hope crossing his face. "Not a lot," he confessed. "I keep having these dreams that scramble the memories, too, so that doesn't help a whole hell of a lot."

"But you were there when shots were fired."

He nodded without hesitating.

"And who was in the house with you?"

"I'd been alone with my Dad – he was in the study. Drinking – not writing, though he was supposed to be finishing a chapter or something, I think. I was watching TV downstairs when my Mom showed up early. Someone tried to repossess the car – I remember that part. She was pissed."

The writer kept his eyes focused on the table, like he was seeing the whole thing play out.

"And then?" Booth prompted, when TJ got quiet.

A couple seconds passed, before the writer shook his head in frustration. "I went upstairs – I wasn't supposed to be up so late, so I was pretending I was asleep."

"And what'd you hear? When did the gun go off?"

TJ sat there a full minute more, thinking so hard Booth was sure steam would start coming out of his ears. Finally, he pushed his beer away and groaned in frustration.

"I don't remember. I remember hearing them fight; I remember my mom coming to get me…"

Booth stayed quiet for a few seconds, trying to convince himself that he was totally justified telling TJ there was no case; he should just go back to Portland and get on with his life. He just couldn't shake the feeling that there might be something there.

Finally, he stood up. "Get dressed – you're coming with me."

TJ looked at Jamie, who looked back at Booth. "You're not gonna take him somewhere to get rid of him, are you? I know you FBI types."

Booth just rolled his eyes. "You too – both of you get cleaned up, I've got an idea."

Sweets was in his office when Booth showed up, his head bowed over a notebook and about six bulky textbooks spread around him. His back was turned to the door, and he didn't even look up when Booth knocked on the door, and finally held up a hand the third time Booth said his name.

"Just one more moment, Agent Booth," he said, writing like a crazy man. When he was finished, he turned around and did a double take when he saw that Booth wasn't alone.

"TJ," Sweets said. He got up and met everybody at the door, looking confused and a little uneasy. "Agent Booth, I don't recall you mentioning – "

"That's 'cause I didn't," Booth interrupted. "I know you're in the middle of the case, but I wanted to see if you could take a little time out for something. It shouldn't take long."

TJ and Jamie still looked clueless, but the words had been enough to get Sweets's curiosity going.

"Of course," he said, which is pretty much what Booth had bargained in. "Come in." He looked at Jamie, then at Booth.

"I don't believe I've met – "

"Jamie Crankshaw, Lance Sweets. Jamie's another writer from Oregon," Booth said quickly, practically shoving everybody into the office. "Sweets is the FBI shrink."

"Wow," Jamie said, looking around at the half dozen diplomas on the wall. "Impressive – you don't look old enough to shave, let alone – "

"He's a genius," Booth interrupted again, because Sweets was kind of blushing and doing that stuttering thing he did around good looking women. "It's not that big a deal," he continued, before Sweets could get a word in edgewise.

That settled, Booth waited until everyone had taken a seat and he was still standing before he finally told them what he was thinking. It wasn't that he was trying to be dramatic or something – he was just pretty sure Sweets would have shot him down in a second if he'd done it any other way.

"You know how TJ's old man died, right?" Booth asked Sweets, not bothering with subtlety.

Sweets nodded seriously, and Booth was impressed that he didn't get squirly at the question.

"I'm aware of the circumstances, yes," the psychologist said.

"Great. So – TJ asked Bones and me to check into the whole thing, in case something got missed. So far, all we've got is dead ends."

TJ and Jamie were sitting together on the chairs he and Bones sat in whenever Sweets got the chance to torture them. TJ looked uneasy, Jamie curious. Sweets clueless.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not certain how I can help. I suppose I could look at the – "

"I want you to hypnotize him," Booth interrupted, finally cutting to the chase.

The whole room went quiet for a few seconds before Sweets shook his head. "You want me to what? That's not something I just _do _like some, some… party trick. It takes time, and silence, and preparation. Do you know how much training was required – "

Booth sighed. "Yeah, Sweets, I know – that's why I didn't just try it myself out in the truck. Come on. I've seen you do it before. Just do that thing you do, ask him a few questions, and we can see if there's something we've been missing up 'til now. You can do this – I know you can."

"No – no way. I'm sorry, but I'm not comfortable with this. I still have a profile to complete for the case we're actually working on, so… You'll just have to ask someone else. There's no way."

* * *

"TJ, I want you to make yourself comfortable. Close your eyes."

Sweets had turned down the lights in his office. Booth and Jamie sat on one side of the room, TJ and Sweets on the other. After some debate – and a little threatening, bribery, and maybe some blackmail – Sweets had finally agreed to work his magic on TJ. For his part, the writer seemed ready to do anything short of buying the psychologist a boat if he'd do his thing, so there was no trouble talking him into it.

The writer sat back in his seat, closed his eyes like Sweets said. Counted back from ten, and Booth found himself feeling a little edgy about what would happen next. He'd seen this done before, of course, but it still freaked him out – never quite sure whether the person going under would suddenly be a little kid or a chicken or… something.

TJ just sounded normal, though.

"Are you in your old home now?" Sweets asked.

TJ nodded.

"Remember," Sweets said, his voice calm and easy, "you're watching this as a spectator, not as a participant. Everything that you see happening is in the past. Nothing about what you see can hurt the person sitting here today. Now, can you tell me what you see?"

A little bit of a pause, before TJ answered. "I'm in the living room watching Simon & Simon."

Booth leaned in to Jamie. "I used to love that show," he whispered.

Sweets shot him a look, and he shut up. "Okay, very good. Now, can you tell me what happens next?"

"I hear a car – Mom's home. I get up – stash my Coke. Run up the stairs. Mom's pissed."

Jamie was watching the whole thing, literally sitting on the edge of her seat. There was another second of silence before Sweets pushed TJ again.

"How can you tell your mother is angry?"

"I'm in my room, but I can hear her yelling when she comes through the door. Somebody tried to take her car – they're gonna fight about money again. Mom's coming up the stairs. I want to go out, and distract her."

His words were coming out faster now. Booth could tell, even from where he was sitting, that the man was getting wound up. Jamie started to say something, but Booth stopped her by touching her arm. She bit her lip, and stayed still.

"TJ," Sweets said calmly, "I want you to take a breath. Remember – this is all in the past. Just tell me what you see. None of it can touch you now."

TJ slowed down a little, his breathing returning to normal. Sweets continued.

"That's good – you're doing great. Now, can you tell me what happens next?"

"I go out to the stairs – shit," he said all of a sudden. Jamie sat up straighter, but Sweets held up a hand to silence her.

"What, TJ? What are you seeing?" His voice was still even. Booth had to admit to a grudging respect whenever he saw Sweets in action.

"I forgot to turn off the TV. I've gotta get to it before Dad finds out I was up. He'll kill me."

Booth recognized the panic on the man's face for what it was: the terror of a little kid who'd had his ass kicked by his old man more than once. Interesting that the Senator had left that part out.

"Okay," Sweets nodded. "It's okay. Your mother is home. The TV is on. Can you tell me what happens next?"

TJ shook his head, like he was trying to wade through the memory.

"That's all right," Sweets said quickly. "Let's back up a little, and focus on one thing at a time. Where are you?"

"I'm on the stairs," TJ said immediately.

Sweets nodded his approval. "Good. And where is your mother?"

TJ paused, his forehead furrowed in concentration. "Dad's office."

"Can you hear them?" Sweets asked.

"Not anymore. The door's open. I hear – " he stopped. Froze.

"You hear what, TJ?" the psychologist prompted.

He looked haunted all of a sudden. No matter what Sweets said, somewhere along the line TJ had stopped being a spectator in all this. He was there.

"I hear Mom scream. Twice. I was headed downstairs for the TV, but I change direction on the stairs. I have to help her."

He went quiet for a second.

"And now what can you hear, TJ? Do you hear your parents' voices?"

TJ shook his head. He was crying a little. Booth could tell Sweets was about to pull him out, but the agent shook his head. They were too close.

"I don't hear anything. Nobody's saying any – " he flinched, twice.

"TJ?" Sweets prompted.

"There's a noise – two loud bangs. Like a gun, or fireworks. I run up the stairs to Dad's office to help Mom. She's crying. Dad's head is on his typewriter – I can see blood. It's everywhere." He was breathing too fast, his hands so tight on the armrest his knuckles had gone white.

"Pull him out, damn it," Jamie whispered hoarsely. She was crying. Booth nodded to Sweets.

"Okay – TJ, listen to me. I want you to take a breath. Walk out of that room and close the door." His voice was so soothing, even Booth felt himself start to calm down. "Have you done that?"

TJ nodded silently.

"Good. That scene you just saw is behind you. You're a grown man now. I'm going to count to three, and you're going to wake up. When you do, you'll remember everything you saw, but you're also going to feel peace and distance. Ready?"

Sweets brought TJ out. The writer just sat there for a couple of minutes, wiping at his eyes and trying to get himself back to normal. Finally, he took a shaky breath.

"So, I guess that solves it," he said weakly, talking mostly to Jamie. "They were right. My mother really did kill him."

Despite what TJ thought he'd just seen, though, Booth was suddenly positive things weren't nearly so cut and dry.

* * *

Instead of telling TJ what he was thinking, Booth made damned sure he and Jamie made good on the promise to get the hell out of his town that night. He left Sweets to finish his profile of the Black Ridge killer, grabbed a sandwich he didn't really feel like eating, and tried to get his mind back on the actual investigation he was supposed to be leading.

He was dying to talk to Bones. She was good at listening to his theories, adding things that made sense and shooting down anything that was too much of a leap. Finally at six-thirty, he couldn't take it anymore. Hoping for a few minutes alone with Bones before the meeting, he headed for the Jeffersonian.

He was on his way to her office when Angela came out of nowhere, barring his way with her hands crossed over her chest.

"She's not here."

Booth made a face. "What do you mean, she's not here? We've got a meeting in ten minutes – she's gotta be here. Where the hell is she?"

A single name crossed his mind. TJ wouldn't actually be on the plane yet – he and Jamie were on the red-eye that night. Like she'd read his thoughts, Angela took a quick step over and cuffed him on the side of the head.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"For being a moron. I'm sorry – you know I love you like the incredibly hot brother-in-law I never had, but Booth…" she leveled a gaze at him, "you've gotta knock this shit off. Brennan's at Jack's, trying to get some space from you. Because you've suddenly gone from Seeley Booth, man among men, to Seeley Booth – noncommunicative, insecure douche bag."

He paused for a second, rubbing at the spot where Angela had hit him. "She's really not coming?"

"She's really not," Angela confirmed.

He stood there for another second, dazed. For maybe the first time, it occurred to him that this really could be it: he'd really blown it. He'd lost her. Angela's face changed, the toughness fading once she read him. She started to reach out, but he shut her down. Stood straighter, took a step back.

"Come on – we've got a briefing. I don't want to be late."

Just before he turned on his heel, he saw the look of surprise cross Angela's face. That look turned to annoyance in short order.

"Okay, see," she yelled after him as he was walking away, "that's an excellent example of the Booth I was hoping not to see."

He ignored her, and kept right on walking.

* * *

The briefing, it turned out, was anything but brief. Sweets had a twenty-page profile that he went over point by friggin' point before Booth finally held up a hand, scribbling like mad with the other.

"Sweets! Can we just please hit the highlights here?"

The psychologist looked hurt.

"Not that I don't appreciate you being thorough," Booth said, by way of an apology. He was definitely gonna kick the ass of the next person who said he couldn't be diplomatic. "It's just… I need to go to my guys with this in an hour, and I've gotta have some clue what the hell I'm talking about."

Sweets nodded. They were in the Jeffersonian conference room – Angela, Hodgins, Wendell, Vincent Murray-Nigel (or whatever the hell his name was), Cam, and Sweets. But not Bones.

"Of course," Sweets said. "We are looking for a white male, mid- to late- forties who was either a member of the Black Ridge community or had close ties there. Despite how far apart these murders took place, I do believe the same individual killed all four children. He is likely a family man himself, with children of his own. Happily married. While he may have done the killing himself, I suspect he was aided by a network of like-minded individuals with ties to the Ridge."

"And what about the link to the drugs?" Booth asked. "Is this guy a veterinarian or a jockey or… what?"

Sweets frowned, which Booth took to mean the question had been bugging him, too.

"If you'll recall Dr. Brennan's initial assertion, she stated that whoever had administered the lethal dose to these children knew very little about human physiology. Though I don't know it for a fact, it is my belief that a trained veterinarian would have at least rudimentary knowledge of the differences between human and equine or bovine chemistry."

"Great," said Booth, pushing his notebook away as he sat back in his chair. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "A guy with kids and ties to the Ridge, with access to the drugs but not a vet himself."

"Brennan and the bone boys came up with something, too," Angela volunteered.

Booth looked at her expectantly, still stung that Bones wasn't there. Angela checked her notes, making a face.

"You know she would have been here if she thought we really – "

"I'm here," came a familiar voice from the doorway. Booth turned, and did his damnedest to hold back his grin.

Bones hurried in, her lab coat half buttoned, pulling her hair back in a ponytail as she moved.

"I apologize for being late. I thought…"

Booth waited. She shook her head.

"My role in this is done – the bodies have been identified, and we know cause of death. But…" she bit her lip, and Booth realized she was mostly saying this for Sweets's benefit. So at least she still cared how the evaluation turned out. "But of course we're a team, and thus it would be unprofessional if I didn't attend the meeting personally."

"We're glad you're here, sweetie," Angela said. She kicked Booth under the table so hard with her pointy goddamn shoe that he felt it in his teeth. "Aren't we, Booth?"

"Ow! Jesus, Angela." He looked at Bones, and for a second everybody else disappeared. Swallowed hard, and nodded. "Yeah, we are."

She smiled, more sad than pleased, and looked down at her notes. Booth cleared his throat and fought to get his head back in the game.

"So, Angela was just about to tell us what you guys came up with."

"Based on the angle of attack and the injuries sustained, we were able to determine that the killer is between five foot eight and five foot ten, and approximately one-hundred and sixty pounds. Left handed."

Booth waited a couple seconds for her to continue. "That's it?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, and he rushed in. "Not that that's not good – I mean, that'll definitely be helpful once we've got a few suspects to choose from."

"It's not as though we have any evidence from the killer himself," she said defensively.

"Yeah – no, I know. Like I said, that's great."

She made a face, and went back to writing something in her notes. Booth gave up trying to say the right thing – something he was apparently incapable of these days where Bones was concerned – and set his focus back on the case.

"Okay, so what else have we got? Hodgins – what can you tell me about the gravesites?"

Hodgins checked his notes and made a face.

"Well, it's like I said before – different burial sites. Izzie Lincoln was likely buried in one of the more urban areas in Adair County, Kentucky. Arnold Billings had traces of granite and lead in the particles we found, which I believe are indicative of burial in one of the mine sites in northern Vermont. I found larvae in Riley White's bones indicating the Virginia – "

"So, wait," Booth interrupted. "You're saying each of these kids was kidnapped in their hometown. Killed almost immediately, and buried down the road from their families?"

"It sure looks that way," Cam agreed.

"But all by the same guy," he said, directing the comment at Sweets.

The psychologist nodded. "That remains my theory."

Booth considered the facts in silence for a couple of minutes. Four kidnapping-slash-murders in the past four years; maybe more. All over the country.

"He's gotta do something where he travels for a living," he said after a little thought. "Otherwise, how's he just randomly popping up going after these kids? It would be too suspicious."

Everybody thought on that for a while, before Bones looked up like the answer had just hit her upside the head.

"A drug rep," she said.

Booth looked at her uncertainly. "Come again?"

"A drug rep – pharmaceutical companies have them to sell their products to hospitals and clinics. I would expect there must be such a thing as drug reps for veterinary drugs, as well."

Hodgins nodded excitedly. "Yeah, that totally makes sense. Somebody like that would have access to whatever they needed – and they travel all over the country. Nobody'd think twice, if a guy like that shows up in town."

"And the kidnappings happened infrequently enough and in disparate enough locations that suspicions were likely never aroused," Bones agreed.

Booth jumped up, feeling for the first time like maybe he had a shot of making sense of this thing. "See, this is why we need you here, Bones," he said, gathering up his notes. "You're part of the team – one part of the team's missing, and it just doesn't work the same. So…" he paced for a second, pushing himself to focus. "Can you guys trace the drugs you found in the bodies, maybe find a manufacturer or something?"

Cam looked at Hodgins, who practically knocked his chair over getting up. "It's not really my area, but I'm on it."

Sweets held up a hand, signaling that he either had to use the john or he'd thought of something. By the look on his face, Booth could tell he wasn't gonna like what the kid was about to say.

"I hate to rain on the parade, but I do have something to add."

Booth groaned and sat back down. "Yeah? Great. What've you got?"

A second's pause, before Sweets sighed. "This man you're looking for? The one we've just described, who likely killed these kids?"

Booth nodded.

"I definitely agree that the profile we've come up with is the killer. Unfortunately, I _don't _believe he's the one who is now digging them up and dumping them on our doorsteps."

"And you still think whoever left us these bones has something bigger planned than what we've seen so far," Booth said, all that hope he'd just felt going straight down the drain.

"I do. Given how quickly those first four bodies were brought to our attention, I believe the perpetrator has a specific – and accelerated – timeline in mind."

"Okay," Booth agreed, trying not to let this latest information totally kill the mood, "So, it's not the same guy. But they had to know each other, right? I mean, they're fighting for the same cause, he knows all the gravesites. There's gotta be a pretty strong link here."

"I think that's a logical assumption," Sweets agreed.

"Great. That means we find the drug rep, he leads us to the other guy. And hopefully, before they ever get a chance to set their endgame in motion."

Once everyone had their instructions and the meeting was over, Booth tried to wait until everyone cleared out so he could get a second alone with Bones. From what he could tell, though, she'd given Angela direct orders not to let that happen. Finally, he gave the artist a pleading look.

"You think you could give us a second, Angela?"

Angela didn't bother asking Bones's permission – instead, she leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, whispered something in her ear. And left. Bones looked pissed.

"What'd she say?" Booth asked, because somehow it seemed important.

Bones pressed her lips together, trying to decide whether or not to tell him. Finally, she sighed. "That she was saving me from myself."

He couldn't help but smile at that. Yet another reason to love Angela. He pulled out the chair next to Bones and sat down, his leg brushing against hers enough to set everything right. Even if only for a few seconds.

"Listen, I'm really glad you came. I mean… I know we're having a hard time right now, but you and me – we're partners, Bones. Always have been, always will be. We'll figure this stuff out. But no matter what, I work better when I'm working with you. You make me try harder, you make me think better…"

He waited for her to tell him how it wasn't really possible for somebody to make another person think better, but instead she just stared at the paper in front of her. Her jaw was clenched tight, like she was trying not to cry. Before he could say anything, she looked at him.

"You told me TJ left Washington."

He panicked. "Did he call you?"

The tears dried up before they ever really spilled. For a second, he thought she was gonna beat the crap out of him. Instead, she pushed her chair back so she could look at him full on.

"No! Caleb called to thank me for helping him, because apparently whatever you did this afternoon with _Jamie _was very helpful and when they spoke on the phone this afternoon, he sounded better than Caleb had heard him in months."

"Bones, look – you'd already told him to bug off, but he was still trying to figure the whole thing out on his own. I just thought if I gave him a hand - "

"You could have told me. I could have helped – we could have worked on it together. Instead you skulk around on the sidelines as though I'm – I'm…"

"Incompetent?" Booth supplied, trying to be helpful.

"Untrustworthy!" she spit out at him. "_And _incompetent. As though we aren't a team at all. I just…" She got up and grabbed her notebook, headed for the door at a fast clip.

"Bones!" He ran after her and caught her at the door, blocking her way out. His heart was beating too fast, that realization that he'd fucked this up so much they really might not find their way back just about knocking him to his knees.

"Look, I didn't mean the TJ thing to seem that way, okay? I swear to you – I was doing it because I felt bad for the guy, but I wasn't trying to leave you out. It just… Looked that way, y'know? I do trust you – Bones, I trust you more than anybody on the planet."

"Then you should start acting like it," she said, arms crossed over her chest, fire still in her eyes. "Now, please move. I'm going to Angela's. We'll talk Monday, as we agreed this morning."

He'd seen that look on her face enough times before to know he wouldn't get her to change her mind. Instead, he opened the door for her and then stood there for maybe a minute, maybe more, watching her walk away.

It seemed like they were doing a lot of that lately.

* * *

After the knock-down, drag-out with Bones, Booth went back to the Hoover and briefed his guys. Swallowed all the anger, all the hurt, all the fear, and managed to come across as a man who knew his job and had a clear bead on what happened next. Whatever else anybody said to him, Booth was pretty sure no one would ever call him less than a pro.

Once the word was out on the no-name drug rep they were looking for, he swung by Founding Fathers in the hopes of meeting up with some of the crew from the Jeffersonian – Cam told him they were headed that way once they wrapped up, and the last thing he wanted was to go back to his place for another night on his own. Besides, there was always the possibility that Bones might've joined everyone there once she thought he was safely out of the way.

No such luck, though. Which was maybe a good thing, considering just how much it looked like she wanted to strangle him back in the conference room. Angela and Hodgins were nowhere in sight, either, but Cam and Tripp, Sweets and Daisy, Wendell and a bunch of the other interns, were all crowded around a table in the back. Friday night meant the place was packed. Booth stopped at the bar before he joined up with everyone, where Jared's bartender from the other night was serving.

"Whiskey shooter and a pint to chase it down?" she guessed, giving him a little bit of a lookover.

He nodded, with more of a smile than he'd given the other night. "Good memory."

"Good bartender never forgets. Jared with you?"

He looked around, like maybe he'd missed him. Gave another little smile. "Doesn't look like it. So, how do you know my brother?"

The music was loud, and the crowd was louder. The bartender – Will, Booth remembered Jared calling her – leaned over the bar to hear him better. Or maybe just to give him a look down her shirt, which seemed just as likely. He downed the shot she set up for him, and nodded for another.

"He's engaged to my sister."

Booth backed off, nice and easy. If this woman was going to be his sister-in-law, there was definitely some etiquette required.

"Wow – he didn't mention that the other night. Sorry. I'm Seeley."

She reached across the bar and shook his hand. "I know. I'm Will. I think somebody's trying to flag you down, Seeley," she said, nodding toward the table he'd spotted when he first came in.

"Yeah, looks like it. I guess I'll see you around, though."

The look she gave him then was just enough to make it clear she didn't have a lot of patience for the etiquette of in-laws. She gave a little half-smile, lowering of the eyes, flipping her dark hair back out of her eyes. Booth didn't necessarily encourage her, but he didn't do much to slow her down, either. Before he left, she all but licked her lips.

"Guess you will," she said.

* * *

A few shots and a couple beers into the night, Booth found that he wasn't actually feeling much pain. Maybe he and Bones really were done, but that didn't mean he was dead, did it? It didn't have to be the end of the world. Surrounded by good friends and whole bar of long-legged honeys who were definitely checking him out, he'd almost convinced himself things were looking up.

Until, that is, Daisy got in on the act.

"Agent Booth!" she said, like she'd been saying it for a while and he hadn't answered. Which was probably true.

He was sandwiched in between Cam and Wendell, not much breathing room and another round on the way. It was just past midnight, and the crowd at Founding Fathers was still going strong.

"Uh, yeah, Daisy?" he dragged his eyes from a pretty redhead in the corner, back to Sweets's squint.

"I was just saying how sorry I was to hear of all the trouble you and Dr. Brennan are having – "

"Daisy!" Sweets interrupted, looking like he was about to have a stroke. If he was trying to shut her up, he had no luck.

"As a deeply passionate and yet profoundly logic-based, strong, and independent woman myself, I feel as though I can speak to some of the issues that might arise from a relationship between two dissimilar personalities."

Booth felt all eyes turn on him, and shifted in his seat. "It's not a big deal – we'll figure it out."

"You know what you should do?" the squint asked, stopping just short of bouncing up and down in her chair.

"Daisy – " Sweets tried again, but Daisy just waved him off.

"You should talk to Lancelot – both of you. He's very perceptive. I know up to this point your sessions have revolved primarily around your professional relationship – "

"That's all right. Thanks," Booth cut her off. He'd just drained his third – or maybe fourth – beer, and was plotting his escape for a refill. Sweets apparently liked what he was hearing, though, because the next thing Booth knew, the kid was in on the act.

"That's actually not a bad idea, Agent Booth," Sweets said.

When Sweets drank, he tended to turn into like a cartoon of himself – super serious, and about fifteen years younger than he already looked. When Booth tipped back a few with Sweets, he always felt like he was drinking with a twelve-year-old trying to act forty.

Booth shook his head. "Uh – no, really. I think we've got it."

"Perhaps we could just try a role play – here at the table. Daisy and I have always found that very helpful."

"My favorite is when Lancelot is you, Agent Booth," Daisy said excitedly. She was pretty drunk herself. "And of course, I must say I find it quite stimulating when I'm Dr. Brennan – "

Sweets turned six shades of red. "Ha ha," he forced a laugh. "She's such a kidder. We don't do that," he lowered his voice, dead serious, leaning across the table.

Booth shook his head and stood, so fast his head spun. "Okay, I'm gonna grab another beer. And when I come back, we're just gonna pretend whatever the hell it is you're talking about never happened."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Cam said dryly. "I think my brain's gonna be reeling from that image for a long, long time."

Will was too busy to do anything but hand him a beer at the bar this time out. When Booth got back to the table, everybody but Cam had disappeared.

"Weren't there a lot more people here when I left?" he asked. His voice sounded drunker than he actually felt – which was maybe a clue that he was drunker than he actually felt.

"I made Sweets and Daisy go away. Some redhead just picked up Wendell, so I'm pretty sure we won't see him again, and Tripp's in the bathroom."

Booth sat down next to her. There was more room at the table now that everyone was gone, but it seemed like too much effort to move his chair any farther away. They sat for another few seconds, maybe a minute, of silence before Cam said anything. Booth was well on his way through his beer and was wishing he'd gotten another shooter to go with it, his buzz beginning to fade in favor of that dull, empty ache that had been dogging him for a week.

"So, you've really fucked up royally with Brennan," was what she opened with.

She was leaning on one elbow, head in her hand. Drunk, and then some – Cam didn't usually drink a lot nowadays, but Booth had been around her enough to know you didn't mess with her when she had a buzz on.

"I don't wanna talk about Bones."

Cam rolled her eyes so far back in her head Booth thought they might get stuck there. She was wearing a white shirt and a black skirt – simple, but she always added that touch of class to whatever she had on. Her hair was up. Booth scooted his chair a little closer, finishing off his beer.

"Whatever happened with us, Camille?"

She almost spit her drink out, her eyes widening. "You're kidding, right?"

"What?" he asked, a little hurt. Maybe a little turned on.

"You did _not _just hit on me with my boyfriend – who's one of _your _best friends – about fifteen feet away."

"I just asked a question," he said, innocent as Christmas. He didn't move away. Slid his hand under the table, until he found her knee.

Things got a little fuzzy after that.

At some point over the course of the night, he challenged Sweets to a fist fight; got slapped by some girl he could remember only vaguely as brunette; and eventually found himself being hauled to the truck by Tripp.

Who didn't talk to him, the whole ride home.

"I didn't mean anything by it," he mumbled, just before he passed out on the couch. He remembered the look Tripp gave him – a mix of pity and disgust, not a trace of friendship or respect in there – and the look chased him into his dreams.

* * *

Someone was pounding.

Hard.

Loud.

The blows weren't landing directly on his skull, but they sure as hell felt like it. He groaned. Pulled the blankets up over his head.

The pounding didn't stop.

It felt like he'd swallowed a wool blanket, his mouth dry and his tongue two sizes too big. His head even bigger. He replayed the night before, hitting the highlights before he tried to refine any details.

The fight with Sweets. Hitting on Cam. He remembered wanting to call Bones – not a good sign. He eased the blanket – which, it turned out, wasn't a blanket at all, but actually his suit jacket – off his face, blinking in the dim light of his apartment.

The knocking had stopped.

Booth took a shaky breath that set his stomach rolling. He tried to focus again: He'd wanted to call Bones, after Tripp dropped him off.

Shit.

Had he?

The pounding started on the door again, harder this time, and Booth managed to get his feet under him enough to stand. Pulled his t-shirt down and searched for a minute before he found his jeans and pulled them on.

More pounding.

"Just a minute, goddammit."

He had to piss like a racehorse. And possibly puke, but he was pretty sure that would pass.

Against his better judgment, he answered the door first, throwing it open without bothering to check who it was first. If it was someone there to kill him, he just prayed they'd do it fast.

Once he realized who was standing there, Booth took a step back in surprise.

"Gordon Gordon." He wasn't clear on whether this was a good surprise or a bad one, but all of a sudden he was grateful as hell to see the man.

He waved the psychologist in. "I've gotta – " he gestured wildly and hurried off to the bathroom, leaving Gordon Gordon standing in his doorway.

When he got back – a splash of cold water and an empty bladder not quite enough to make him feel like a new man – Gordon Gordon was still standing where he'd left him. Kind of like he didn't quite dare to come in.

"My, Agent Booth, it seems you've truly embraced bachelorhood since your recent split with Dr. Brennan."

Booth narrowed his eyes, pulling Gordon Gordon inside and shutting the door behind him.

"It's not a split – we're just… thinking. You talk to Sweets?"

"Indeed I did," Gordon agreed. He made a big show of walking around the empty bottles and laundry in the living room, and headed straight for Booth's tiny kitchen. Once there, he started taking all the dirty dishes out of the sink.

"Your Dr. Sweets called me late last evening, in the midst of clean-up at the restaurant. He was in quite a state."

Booth stood back with his hands in his pockets, head still aching, gut still rolling. Once the sink had been cleared of the mountain of dishes, Gordon Gordon squirted a big glob of dish liquid in. It was some fruity detergent Bones made him buy – made of wild berries and approved by the rainforests or something.

Booth liked the smell, though.

Steam rose from the sink as hot water filled it, Gordon Gordon's big hands disappearing into the suds. The psychologist – or ex-psychologist, whatever – hummed something tuneless, turning his back like Booth wasn't even there.

"Perhaps you could gather any dishes around the rest of the flat?" Gordon suggested.

"Look, you don't need to do this. I mean, jeez – it's not even eight o'clock."

"Not at all, Agent Booth – I insist." The man turned and gave Booth a goofy grin. "Besides which, if Dr. Sweets learned that I'd gone back on my word and not come to see you first thing – " he shook his head, his eyes getting bigger. "Well, I shudder to think what the lad would do. I expect he'd come haul me bodily from my post at the chef's table this evening. And that simply would not do."

Booth nodded. He'd never admit it, but he was kind of relieved Gordon Gordon wasn't running off.

"Nah, I guess it wouldn't. So… What, you're just gonna hang out here and clean my place? Are you hanging up your chef's hat for a French maid's outfit now or what?"

Gordon Gordon laughed; Booth felt himself start to relax at the sound.

"No, I'm afraid not – though between you and me, I do rather fancy those heels. No… I thought we could just tidy up a bit, and thus allay Dr. Sweets's I'm sure unfounded fears, that you may be… What was the phrase he used? Circling the drain, I believe is how he put it."

"He said that?"

"Hyperbole, I'm sure." Gordon Gordon rinsed a few clean plates and then set them in the strainer. Booth had to scrounge for a minute or two, but eventually came up with a clean hand towel to dry with.

For a while, they just stood like that: doing the dishes, Gordon Gordon humming, while Booth focused on drying. His headache was easing, but he blamed the hangover for not registering Gordon Gordon's strategy earlier on. After a good five minutes of silence, it finally dawned on him: the psychologist was waiting him out, the same way he had a dozen times or more, back when Booth used to see him every week.

Once he realized what was going on, Booth was surprised to find that he didn't really care all that much.

It turned out, he kind of wanted to talk.

"So, Sweets told you about me and Bones?"

Gordon Gordon rinsed another dish before he answered. "He said you'd had a bit of a row."

Booth laughed out loud at that. "Yeah. You could say that."

Nothing – not even a 'hmm' for a response. Booth waited another second or two before he dove in.

"It's just – when she gets scared, Bones has this habit of blowing everything up in our faces. So, I get back from being gone two weeks at this training thing, and I don't know… Parker mentioned to her how we'd been talking about maybe building a house. And she just freaked out."

Gordon Gordon did give a little "Hmm" at that.

"And that's when Dr. Brennan – how did you put it? Blew things up in your faces?"

"Not like that – it's not like she does it on purpose, y'know? She just gets… scared."

Three more plates were washed, rinsed, dried and put away before Gordon Gordon said another word.

"Are you familiar with the term 'projecting'?" he finally asked.

Booth didn't like the question. "Projecting – yeah, sure. It's when somebody's nuts, but they're convinced it's everybody else."

Gordon Gordon laughed. They were coming to the end of the dishes; just a few glasses on the sideboard, and they'd be done. Booth wondered if the man would leave when they were through.

He kind of hoped not.

"That's perhaps a crude way of putting it, but you have the general concept. It's really quite a fascinating defense mechanism."

He finished the last glasses and wiped down the counter without another word.

"So, what?" Booth finally burst out. "You don't think Bones was sabotaging this whole thing? You think I was, and I just put it all on her? Because you haven't been there for all the dinners and movies and… whatever, where I think everything's great and then all of a sudden we're back at square one again."

His voice had gotten louder – enough to rock his already aching head. He settled down.

"Trust me, being with a woman like Bones is no picnic sometimes."

"I'm sure that must be very trying." Gordon Gordon gathered all the beer bottles and put them in the recycling bin Bones and Parker had set up. He rinsed out the dish sponge, while Booth just stood there feeling more and more on edge.

"It is," Booth agreed, still sounding pretty damned defensive.

"I honestly don't know how you've stood it so long." Gordon Gordon sat down in one of Booth's kitchen stools with a heavy sigh. "She's very lucky to have someone with your degree of patience fighting for this relationship. There to guide her when times are uncertain."

Booth sat down opposite him at the table. "Now you're just making fun of me."

"Perhaps."

A second more passed. Gordon Gordon leaned back in his chair and tilted his head, tapping his fingers against his chin before he finally said anything.

"When did Dr. Brennan's parents abandon she and her brother?"

"She was fifteen," he said, his voice quiet now.

"And her life before that? Was it… normal? Peaceful? Happy?"

"I think so, yeah," Booth answered after a second's thought. "I mean – I know she was always quiet, kind of in her own world. A little shy. But yeah – I think that's why it was so tough for her once they left her like that. Before that, she had things pretty good."

Gordon Gordon thought about that for a while.

"And you?" he asked, out of the blue.

Booth looked at him blankly. "And me what?"

"And you – your childhood? It wasn't happy, clearly. Certainly not peaceful. Approximately how old were you when your father began directing his aggression toward you?"

He tensed up in an instant, feeling the words like hot iron.

"I think maybe you should go."

Gordon Gordon didn't move an inch. "Do you?" he asked easily. "It's a simple question, Agent Booth. Just the two of us here, and I believe you know me well enough by now to know that whatever is discussed here never leaves this room."

"I don't talk about that stuff," Booth said roughly, his eyes on the table.

Gordon Gordon laughed, but it didn't sound like he found anything all that funny.

"No, Agent Booth, you don't. But I think perhaps it's time you did. Don't you?"

Ten seconds of silence turned into twenty. Booth sat at the table for a long time, trying to decide what to do. Throw the man out? Tell him to mind his own damned business? There was a spot that looked like dried blood on the table. Booth scraped at it with his thumbnail for a good five seconds before he realized it was just ketchup.

"I don't know what to say," he finally admitted. He sounded tired. A little beaten up.

"What happened when you went to see your old home?" Gordon Gordon asked.

Bones must have told Sweets about it, Booth realized. How worried did she have to be, he wondered, to tell Sweets a thing like that?

He cleared his throat. "You're right – I didn't have the best time as a kid, okay? It's not like I went back to the old place and was all, 'Wow, remember all the great times we had here? Look how small it seems now…' It was always small. My old man was big – not our place. Just him."

Gordon Gordon didn't say anything. Booth wasn't sure where to go next – just start puking up all the sad stories? Dredge up all the crap like the psychologist was his confessor or something?

They were silent for a long time before Gordon Gordon gave a big sigh. Booth expected more dramatics, more games, but when he looked the other man in the eye, all he saw was honesty. Maybe a little sadness, but it didn't look like pity.

"Tell me about your mother."

He started to get defensive again, but Gordon Gordon held up his hand. "Not in any Freudian way – I'm sure she was a lovely woman, and I've no interest in how you felt about her. At least, not at the moment. Just… What did she do?"

Booth relaxed. "She wrote jingles. Y'know – for commercials. Played piano."

"A musician," Gordon Gordon said. He looked impressed. "And your father?"

"Fighter pilot in the war. Then he came back and he was a barber. Y'know… Just a working class kind of guy. My mom actually came from a kind of stuffy family – they never thought my old man was good enough for her."

"And that couldn't have been because he was an abusive alcoholic who demeaned her and beat her children?"

He said it so easy, so casual, that it took Booth a second to register the words. Maybe he was more hungover than he'd thought.

"Look, my old man had problems, all right?" his voice got tighter. "That doesn't mean you can just bad mouth somebody when they're not around to defend themselves."

He settled down when Gordon Gordon didn't move. Cleared his throat again.

"He had problems – I know that. Nobody's perfect, right?"

"That's true." The way the psychologist said it, it didn't really sound like he was agreeing. A couple more seconds passed.

"Agent Booth, do you believe other people think Dr. Brennan is too good for you?"

He shrugged, his eyes skating from Gordon's. The question made him more uncomfortable than it should have.

"Do _you _believe Dr. Brennan is too good for you?" the psychologist followed up, when Booth didn't answer.

Booth chipped away at the ketchup stain some more, his eyes fixed on it. Gordon Gordon waited a couple seconds, then stood up and put his hand on Booth's shoulder. He squeezed, and it felt good – solid, strong. Safe.

"My dear boy," he said, kind of quiet. Kind of sad. "You can do this. All it takes is that most rudimentary skill."

Booth looked up and met the man's eye. He realized he was kind of crying – or trying like hell not to, a lump the size of Baltimore lodged in his throat. He cleared his way past it.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Language, Agent Booth. She asks a question, you answer. The dance begins."

Booth laughed, kind of shaky, and followed Gordon Gordon to the door.

"So, that's all great, but what about the other stuff? The fucked up family, the crappy childhood, the…" he fell off. Gordon Gordon smiled.

"The not thinking you're good enough?" he asked.

Booth shrugged. Kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground.

"I suppose you could invest in some self-help course or other – they're immensely popular these days. Repeat 'I'm fabulous' a hundred times before bed each night."

Booth rolled his eyes. Laughed a little, even, looking up. "Or?"

"Or," Gordon Gordon drew the word out. "You could stop being a dolt. The visit to your old home shook your confidence, but there's no reason to let it demolish you. Look in the mirror. You're accomplished, courageous, decorated, virile. A good bit more intelligent than you give yourself credit for. Stop moping about like a sad old sod. If you want Dr. Brennan in your life, show her you're the same man you've always been. That, I'd wager, is the very man she fell in love with."

"So, stop moping," Booth interpreted. "This is kind of like the 'grow a set' advice – you know that, right?"

"Very similar," Gordon Gordon agreed. "Now, I must be going. I have a private party of twelve expecting an orgiastic feast to appear magically before them at precisely one o'clock. And, contrary to popular belief, there is very little magic involved in such endeavors."

"Time to cook," Booth translated.

Gordon Gordon grinned, nodding. "Time to cook. Bring Temperance by once you've smoothed things over, and I'll make something befitting a scientist and her white knight."

Booth agreed, closing the door once the psychologist was gone. He stood there for a few seconds with his head against the door, breathing in. Breathing out.

All of a sudden, his shoulders felt looser.

His headache eased up.

He was back, damn it.

Now, he just had to convince Bones of that.

* * *

Before he could do anything where Bones was concerned, though, he got a message from Sweets telling him to meet him at the Hoover for an urgent meeting with Werner.

Which was, of course, exactly what he wanted to hear.

Sweets was already in Werner's office when Booth got there, acting tense and completely freaked out. Booth couldn't tell if it was because of whatever had happened the night before at the bar or if it had something to do with the meeting they were having, but either way he was getting a bad feeling. He gave the Deputy Director a quick rundown of everything they'd figured out the night before and where they stood on the investigation – which was basically nowhere, since at the moment all they could do was chase down leads that, it seemed, weren't leading anywhere – and then got the tight feeling in his gut that he had so much these days it was starting to feel normal.

"Was there anything else, sir?" he asked.

Sweets looked like he was about to have a heart attack. He cleared his throat when Werner looked at him, then sat up straighter in his chair.

"Uh – Deputy Director Werner requested – " the way Sweets said requested made it clear to Booth that there'd been no requesting about it, "an update on how I believe the evaluation is going thus far, of your partnership with Dr. Brennan."

All of a sudden, Sweets made a point of looking Booth in the eye, making a whole series of weird eyebrow moves that Booth guessed were supposed to be subtle. Werner looked at the kid like he was having an epileptic fit – which, for all Booth knew, he might be.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Werner demanded. "What, do you have some kind of tic or something? I just want a read on how things are going on this thing, and I can't seem to pin you down for more than two minutes to get a straight answer."

Booth looked at Sweets; Sweets looked at Booth. There was silence for five seconds or more, before Werner exploded.

"Well?"

Sweets sat up straighter. All of a sudden, he got calm – did that thing Booth had started to admire in him, and stepped up to the plate just when Booth was sure he was about to fall on his face.

"It's going fine, sir," Sweets said, looking Werner square in the eye. "Naturally with a case of this magnitude, there are bound to be some challenges in any partnership – "

"What kind of challenges?" Werner interrupted.

Sweets stumbled. "Uh – n-nothing, sir. Just, you know, the usual… Challenges." After another beat, he recovered. Looked at Booth again, fast, then at Werner. The psychologist seemed to be deciding something, but Booth had no idea what.

"I'd like your permission to speak freely on this matter, sir," he said.

Booth dropped his eyes to Werner's desk. All of a sudden, his hands felt clammy, his mouth dry. This was it, he thought silently. The end of the partnership. And if he and Bones weren't partners anymore, and the relationship was dead-ended the way it seemed to be, what did that mean? That they were back to coffee? Or less than that, even.

Sweets cleared his throat. "Agent Booth – are you listening?"

Booth looked up absently. "Yeah, Sweets. I'm listening. Go ahead."

"Good." Sweets took a deep breath. "Over the past few days, I've shadowed Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth as you requested, sir," he started, focusing on Werner. "But the truth is, I've spent the past three years observing their partnership – their relationship, if you will – closely. And while the dynamics of that relationship may technically have changed over the past six months, the reality is that fundamentally nothing is any different between Booth and Brennan."

He paused again, like he was thinking things through. Werner cleared his throat impatiently.

"You mind telling me what the hell you mean by that, Sweets?"

"Of course," Sweets nodded, like he'd expected that kind of a response. He thought for another second. Leaned forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his skinny knees.

"What I mean is, Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan have always been too close – at least, they have for as long as I've known them. They've always lacked objectivity where the other party was concerned. Both have demonstrated innumerable times that they are willing to sacrifice their own lives for the life of the other."

Booth sat back in his chair, not sure how he should be taking Sweets's words.

"So, what does that mean to me?" Werner asked, pretty much voicing Booth's thoughts.

"Well," Sweets continued, "I believe that individuals with lower personal standards, those with a more diminished moral compass, might be compromised by the type of relationship between Booth and Brennan. But because they do hold themselves – and the world – to such rigorous standards, their relationship ultimately only strengthens the way they perform. They push one another to excel, to pursue justice, to embrace truth even when that truth is difficult to take. It is by no means your typical partnership, however…"

He stopped. Booth raised his eyebrows, still not quite daring to believe this was really happening.

"However…" Booth prompted.

Sweets smiled at him. It was a good smile, too – the kind of smile you got from friends who've stuck by you long after you deserved to lose them.

"However," Sweets picked up, "that partnership still works. Their record speaks for itself – theirs is a formidable pairing that will not suffer, regardless of what might be happening personally. Regardless of what personal challenges they may face, I genuinely believe that Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth will always set those challenges aside in order to assure the successful resolution to a case."

Booth let out a breath, sinking back in his chair. Werner looked at him, then back at Sweets. The old man was smiling, just a little.

"So, Dr. Sweets, your official recommendation?"

Sweets stayed serious. "Though it is not the two weeks initially thought required for this process, I would like to offer my professional conclusion now. It is my opinion that the personal relationship between Dr. Temperance Brennan and Special Agent Seeley Booth has no bearing on the respective outcome of their investigations, or how said investigations are conducted. The fact that the two subjects are employed by separate agencies further facilitates their ability to maintain objectivity and have the appropriate checks and balances in place to ensure that justice continues to be served, as it has by both parties to this point."

Booth's eyes widened, and he scratched his head a little.

"Okay – in English, Sweets?"

Sweets turned in his chair and held out his hand. "Congratulations, Agent Booth," the psychologist said sincerely. "I hope that you and Dr. Brennan will continue your partnership for many years to come."

* * *

Booth almost broke the sound barrier trucking over to the Jeffersonian after his meeting with Sweets and Werner. The investigation into his and Bones's partnership was over. TJ should be back in Portland by now. His talk with Gordon Gordon that morning made him feel like he had a better grip on himself than he'd had in weeks. And now, it was time to track down Bones and make things right again.

Once he got to the Jeffersonian, however, it turned out there was just one thing standing in the way of his whole turning-over-a-new-leaf-and-getting-Bones-back plan. Actually, just one person.

"No way."

At the moment, that person was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, blocking the way into the cryptology lab in the basement of the Jeffersonian, where Bones was working.

"Angela, look – I'm not gonna screw this up. I've had time to think – "

"No. You've had time to get drunker than a skunk, hit on _Cam, _for crying out loud, and then suddenly have an epiphany in the morning. Be grateful I intercepted your call last night, before you did permanent damage."

Booth's face fell. "Wait – I called her?"

"You called her," Angela confirmed. "It's just lucky for you I've had some experience with lovesick boys and their lust for drunk dialing, and convinced her to hand over her phone before bed last night."

He winced. "That bad?"

"_Soooo _much worse. Trust me. Maybe you really have had time to think, but frankly? Brennan hasn't. She's still pissed – and has every right to be, might I add. And you may have showered and shaved, but you still look like hell, and your pores are leaking 90-proof liquor."

He didn't say anything. They were both talking low, the door shut behind them and Bones doing her bones thing just out of sight. The Jeffersonian basement always gave him the creeps, anyway – it was dusty and dark, with weird stuff from the displays lurking in all the corners. Saturday afternoon meant the place was mostly empty – everyone but Hodgins had done their thing as far as the Black Ridge case went, so until they either got more bodies or more evidence, nobody could do much of anything. Bones, of course, always had work she could do.

He was debating whether or not to listen to Angela or ignore her and talk to Bones anyway when a voice came from behind him, so sudden Booth just about jumped out of his skin.

"Seeley."

Booth turned around to find Tripp headed down the hallway. The man looked tired and a little scruffy, a wary look to his eyes that said he wasn't sure whether Booth was actually safe to be around anymore.

"Hey," Booth greeted him. The night before came back in a rush of bad moves and worse words, and he had to work to meet the man's eye.

"Listen, about last night…"

Tripp waved him off, but it wasn't like an all's forgiven wave – more like a 'we'll deal with it later' wave.

"Cam told me you'd be down here. Come on – we need to swing by your place. Grab your gear."

Angela had been quiet up to this point, still guarding Bones like she was protecting the queen, but now she piped up.

"What gear?"

"Yeah," Booth echoed. "What gear?"

"Pack. Woolies. You still got those snowshoes I loaned you?"

Booth nodded. "Yeah, but what the hell – "

"Cam said to get you out of town. I checked in with Werner, pretending I was helping out with the case. He said everything's at a standstill while your guys chase down leads. You've got your cell – we'll stay in range. But we're hitting the woods."

"I can't hit – "

"Oh, yes you can," Angela interrupted. "That's actually genius. You guys can have some male bonding ritual thing in the woods, and I can spend twenty-four hours without Jack talking to me about the miracle of – "

"Hey hey hey," Booth interrupted. "He never said anything about inviting Hodgins on this thing."

Tripp shrugged. "Nah, that's a good idea. I already invited TJ – the more the merrier, right?"

"Wait?" Booth froze. "You already what?"

Tripp turned innocent eyes on him for about two seconds before he broke into a grin. "Just kidding."

Booth started to say something in protest, but Tripp held up his hand.

"Hey – you hit on my girlfriend while I was in the next room buying you beer. I figure I'm entitled to a few shots."

Booth fell silent, feeling a flush climb his neck. "Yeah… Have I mentioned how sorry I am about that?"

"You can apologize on the way out," Tripp said. He gave a smile that seemed sincere enough, and nodded toward the exit. "Don't worry about it, we're good. But that doesn't mean I'm letting you anywhere near a beer, a bar, or my girlfriend for at least twenty-four hours."

Considering the way he'd acted, Booth figured that was probably fair.

* * *

Tripp, Hodgins, and Booth somehow turned into Tripp, Hodgins, Sweets, Wendell, and Booth. And Jared. Booth put his foot down when they mentioned bringing along the Brit and the Arab guy who wasn't really Arab. There was a limit to a man's patience, after all.

Despite Booth's very loud protests, they all crowded into Tripp's suburban, along with backpacks and snowshoes and those sausage things that squirt cheese when you bite into them. No beer. No liquor. Booth was allowed to bring his cell phone and his gun, since there was the chance that the Black Ridge case could break wide open anytime. He double and triple checked on the security at Hodgins's place, but so far nobody had seen a trace of somebody following Bones. Remembering his mistake over the summer, he made sure he was on top of both the private security at the Hodgins estate and the Feds Werner had gotten on board. After the whole break-in at Bones's place earlier that week, he just kept expecting somebody to show up, some contact to be made… Something.

But there was nothing.

And so, they went into the woods. Since Booth actually did need to stay kind of close at hand, Tripp managed to find a place that was only about an hour outside DC but still looked like it was the middle of nowhere. Greenbelt Park wasn't far off, but this place was beyond the park limits – apparently, one of the Outward Bound guide's buddies had a cabin he'd said they could use for the night.

The only problem was, there wasn't actually a road leading up there.

Or a path.

It was cold. Dark, with nothing but a toenail moon looking down on them, but the snow kept things light enough to see by. Seven o'clock on a Saturday night, but Booth found that once he'd gotten past everything else, he was kind of glad to be where he was. He strapped on snowshoes like the rest of the guys, took a few easy breaths, and followed behind Tripp.

The snow was maybe a foot deep, solid enough that it was easy to blaze a trail without falling through the thick layer of ice at the top of the packed powder. Sweets was having a hard time keeping up, so Booth fell back a little to keep him company. Jared was quiet – Booth realized for maybe the first time just how rare it was for him to actually include his brother in his life. For him to include anybody in his life, really, except for maybe Bones.

"It's gorgeous out here," Hodgins said, stalling out about halfway up a steep incline. "I keep reminding myself to get out of the lab, but nights like this I realize just how much I'm missing."

"You ask me, it's a little creepy," Wendell disagreed. He kept looking back over his shoulder, like he expected some monster to come after them any second. "Back home, the only time people come out someplace this quiet on purpose is to kill somebody."

"Where the hell'd you grow up, El Salvador?" Jared asked.

"Philly, born and bred," Wendell told him.

The conversation tapered off, but they stayed where they were. From their spot on the mountainside, they could see back down over a world of white and ice, trees stripped bare and ragged evergreens that would never make the cut in Christmas town. It was a real winter scene – not the ones in Rockwell paintings where the snow's still fresh and the trees have that pretty coat of white, but the darker world of black and white that felt more real, somehow, to Booth. Prettier, too, in its way.

"We should keep going," Tripp finally said, when everybody'd gone quiet. Booth snapped out of his trance, and they moved on.

When they reached the cabin, Booth found himself feeling more clear than he had in a good, long time. He'd sweated out all the alcohol he'd been dumping down his throat for the past seventy-two hours, and finally felt clean. Pretty fresh, too, for a guy who'd slept like crap for weeks and smelled like old gym socks.

Inside, Tripp got the woodstove going and they cooked up bratwurst and beans and all the fare that would make the cabin completely unlivable by three a.m. Played a couple games of cards, talked about women and jobs, sex and stress and the good old days. Somewhere along the line, it occurred to Booth that the people he was surrounded with – Hodgins and Sweets, Wendell, Tripp, his brother – had stopped being just guys he knew, and had become friends. Family, in a way that went deeper than just blood. It got him thinking about the Rangers, which got him thinking about Mickey.

"So, I'm thinking about buying the bar," Jared said, out of the blue. The Rangers and Mickey went straight out the window.

They were sitting in lawn chairs around a potbelly stove in the middle of the one-room cabin. There were bunkbeds lining the walls, and the place was already getting that homey smell that came with six guys who'd just eaten more than their share of bratwurst and beans.

"What bar?" Booth demanded, sounding more like a big brother than he had all night. Jared rolled his eyes, pursed his lips.

"Founding Fathers," he said. "Well – to be honest, I'm kind of beyond the thinking stage."

"How far beyond?" Sweets asked curiously.

Jared got that little half-smile Booth always had the urge to wipe off his face. Quirked an eyebrow. Pulled out a set of keys from his jacket, and dangled them in front of them.

"The keys to the kingdom, fellas."

"You bought Founding Fathers?" Booth asked. "Where the hell did you get the money to buy Founding Fathers? And aren't you a drunk? What the hell are you thinking buying a – "

"Don't make me separate you, boys," Tripp said easily. "Booth, chill out. Let him tell his story."

Jared waited until Booth had settled back in his chair, thinking for the first time that leaving the beer behind might have been a mistake.

"I didn't buy it alone. Padme's sister – Will – went in on it with me. We talked about it for a while, and…" he shrugged. "Let's face it, big brother, my military career isn't exactly taking off. But this… I could be good at this. I'm good with money."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Since when?"

Jared bristled, but Sweets interrupted. "It's true, actually. I've had a few conversations with Jared about finances – his advice has always been very sound."

"So, you own a bar," Booth said, letting the thought roll around in his brain. "That's what you were doing there the other night – that was the page of numbers you had out."

He nodded. "You got it."

"And that whole, you're a drunk thing?" Booth pressed, not content to just let it go now that they were talking about it.

There was a long silence. Jared had a ginger ale in his hands – he kind of rolled the can back and forth, eyed it for a minute. Thought.

"One day at a time, big brother. You're the one who brought up Cheers the other night, or don't you remember? Sam Malone was the biggest drunk out there. If he can do it…"

"Sam Malone was on TV," Booth pointed out.

He shrugged easily. People were always saying how much Jared looked like his big brother, but Booth never really saw it. Just then, he did.

"Okay," Booth finally nodded. "So, you bought yourself a bar." He thought about it. "I guess that could be a good thing. If this case doesn't work out, I might be looking for a job."

Jared gave him a slow grin. The talk steered away from the bar and back onto other things. Booth got sleepy, but he stayed up as long as he could. Listened to the chatter, cracked a few jokes, felt life slowly ease its weight off his shoulders.

It had been a good day.

When he settled into his bunk that night, it wasn't quite midnight. He was on the bottom bunk, Jared on the top, the way it used to be when they were kids. A memory came back to him all of a sudden, and he kind of smiled. Stretched his legs up and kicked the mattress above him.

"Ow. Quit it, Seeley," Jared said.

Booth smiled. Kicked again, light enough not to do any damage, hard enough to be annoying as hell.

"Damn it, knock it off. Or – "

Old threats came back to him. "Or what?" he challenged.

"Or I'll come down there and kick your ass."

"Both of you knock it off, or I'll come over and kick both your asses," Tripp said, half asleep in the bunk across the room.

Jared shut up; Booth let his legs fall back onto the bed. He thought of Parker. Thought of Bones. Said a silent 'thank you' for both of them, and closed his eyes. He was happy where he was, no doubt, but all of a sudden he couldn't wait for morning to come.

Because he knew exactly where he was headed at first light.

* * *

"Seeley." A whisper at his ear, but definitely not the voice he was used to hearing before dawn. He opened one eye.

"What?"

The cabin was filled with snoring and guy funk – which was all right in small doses, but Booth was looking forward to getting home all the same. Tripp was crouched beside his bunk, dressed and sharp-eyed in the dim light that spilled through dirty windows.

"C'mon – I've got coffee. Let's go for a hike."

He groaned. "Take Sweets – he loves that shit. I'm sleeping."

It turned out that he wasn't actually sleeping at all, though, because the next minute Tripp had stolen his pillow and was already headed out the door. Booth kind of grumbled, wondering how the hell someone like Cam – Cam, for Christ's sake, who never got out of bed before noon if she could help it – put up with this.

He dressed in a hurry, silent and alert, feeling the miracle cure of twenty-four hours without a drop of booze and the workout the night before, beginning to kick his body back into shape.

Outside, a light coat of snow had fallen while they were sleeping – the Rockwell world he'd dismissed the night before was back. He had to admit, it was impressive. Fresh powder weighed down the evergreens, covered the roof, coated the blue tarp protecting a woodpile up against the cabin. The air was cold, but not cold enough that he minded much – a little bite that was good for waking up. No wind. No noise.

Tripp handed him a thermos and his snowshoes. "C'mon – sun's almost up. Best view's up over that rise."

Since fighting him would be pointless, Booth just strapped on his shoes. Tucked his thermos in his pack, and took the trekking poles Tripp had been holding for him.

"What time is it?" he finally asked.

Tripp shrugged. "Not a clue. Early, I imagine. Come on – get the lead out, kid."

They hit their goal maybe twenty minutes later. It wasn't a hard climb, but it was enough to get Booth's blood moving and his breath coming a little harder. The sky was that deep pink he'd only seen in winter skies – a color Angela would be able to capture, he knew, but otherwise he couldn't imagine anybody but God getting it right. He and Tripp sat on a narrow ledge with their feet dangling over the edge, nothing but air for miles below them.

They were both silent for a while, before Tripp started talking.

"Did Cam ever tell you I was married before?" he asked.

Booth shook his head, surprised. It seemed like the kind of thing that would've come up before.

Tripp dug around in his pocket for a minute and came out with his wallet. Opened it up and pulled out a picture, then handed it to Booth.

"Caroline," he said.

The woman staring back at him was blonde. Great smile. Blue eyes. Good looking, but Booth wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to react.

"Uh – wow," was all he finally came up with. Then, "Does – uh, does Cam know you're carrying around a picture of your ex-wife?"

"It was her idea," he said easily. He took the picture back, looked at it for a second, then put it back in his wallet. "And not ex – late. She died, just over twelve years ago."

"Oh." Booth thought about this for a second. "I'm sorry. Were you married long?"

Tripp nodded, thinking about the question. "Fourteen years. We got married young – one of those whirlwind things. We met when we were both pre-med. I took one look at her, and I was gone. Asked her to marry me on our second date."

Booth laughed, looking at the man in surprise. "What'd she say?"

Tripp rolled his eyes. "Ask me again in six months."

"And?"

He shrugged. "I asked her again in six months, to the day. She said yes." They got quiet again for a little while, Tripp kind of thoughtful. "We were engaged for a year. Ten months into it, she broke it off. Said she didn't want to see me anymore."

Booth found himself caught up in the story, trying to imagine Tripp at twenty-four, twenty-five. A lovesick pre-med Tripp, without scruff and an overloaded backpack.

"Why?"

Tripp grinned, rolled his eyes. A big roll, too, like women were a little too much sometimes.

"Said I didn't talk to her."

At the words, Booth perked up. He kept his eyes out on the horizon, thinking about this. "You?" He had a hard time believing this. "What'd you do?"

"Said good riddance. I was a hotshot resident at that point – couldn't teach me a thing I didn't already know. We were apart three days before I came groveling back."

"So, what'd you do about the talking thing?" Booth asked, trying not to seem too interested.

"Caroline came up with the solution. You know that thing we did this summer? That one question a night thing?"

Booth nodded with a frown, remembering the Outward Bound course that summer and talking way more than he wanted to about things he didn't really care to share with anyone, at campfires in the woods when he would've much rather been sleeping.

"She came up with that?"

Tripp nodded, with a little laugh. "Yep – that was all her. That was the rule: one question a night, no holds barred. No lying, no secrets, no not answering."

Booth considered this for a couple seconds. "And it worked?"

Another nod. Tripp got quiet, looking out over the valley below. Took a breath.

"Once the kids were old enough, they got in on the act. Drove them nuts for a long while. But when she was dying – she was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was thirty-seven, – we kept up with the questions." Booth didn't say anything. It seemed like there weren't really any words for that kind of thing. Tripp went on, after a while.

"Not long before the end, she wrote a whole notebook of questions for me, for after she was gone… Things to ask the kids. Things to ask myself. Conversations I'd have with the stars, imagining she was there." The man leaned back against the rock face behind them, a distant smile on his face.

"It's funny, after a while one night of great sex starts to blend into another… Not that great sex is anything to sneeze at, of course. But those talks – sometimes, I can just replay them in my head. I can remember the way Ginny – that's our youngest – used to roll her eyes at the beginning of the night, before she started getting into it and pretty soon you'd have to do everything but muzzle her just to get her to stop. I remember Caroline sitting on the bed with her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on her knees, this look on her face like there was no place in the world she'd rather be. Nothing more interesting than the conversation we were having."

He kind of laughed, bringing himself back from that world like he'd gotten lost for a minute.

"You find somebody who wants to hear your stories – all of them, even the ugly ones – that bad, and you don't let them go."

It got quiet again. Booth was thinking about the other morning in bed with Bones. Lying in her arms, knowing that there was no other place on the planet he'd rather be.

He stood up, all of a sudden.

"We should go."

Tripp looked up at him with a big old grin. "Oh yeah?" he asked knowingly. "Where to?"

Booth didn't even dignify the question with a response.

* * *

"I'm not leaving."

Angela was giving Booth the eye at the front door of the Hodgins palace, but he didn't even care. He was showered, he was shaved. He was thinking clearer than he had in days.

And he wasn't leaving alone.

"How long since your last drink?" she asked skeptically.

Booth checked his watch. It was ten o'clock on Sunday morning, and Angela was wearing what had to be the only maternity kimono on the planet. He did a little mental calculating.

"I don't know… Thirty-six hours? Not since Friday night."

Angela thought it over for a few minutes, then nodded toward the back of the place.

"She's out feeding the ducks."

"You have ducks?"

"There's a pond out back. Sometimes, there are ducks in it." Angela crossed her arms over her chest. "Is that really important?"

Definitely not.

Bones wasn't actually feeding the ducks. Mostly, it seemed like she was studying them in that way she did, taking in every detail of what they were doing. She was sitting on a wooden bench with coffee in her hands, the collar of her coat up and a wool hat Booth had always liked, setting a little lopsided on her pretty head.

"Hey," he said, because he had to say something to start things out.

She turned around in her seat. As always, he could read every emotion that crossed her face. First – and this was the one he chose to cling to – came a little flicker of happiness. Next, of course, came sadness, and then she just looked pissed off.

All of which, to be fair, Booth could totally understand.

Still, he wasn't going anywhere.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"We agreed we'd talk tomorrow morning," she said. She stood up, holding her coffee like it was a deadly weapon. "You're being irrational."

"I have to go out of town in a couple of hours," he said, which was true. "I won't be here tomorrow to talk."

Something that looked a lot like panic flashed in her eyes. She turned her back on him and looked out over the pond. There were maybe three ducks out there, and an ornery looking goose walking on the opposite bank.

"I'm not ready," she said. Her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear her, a desperate edge to her words.

"Not ready for what, Bones?" He kept his voice quiet, easy. Went to her and turned her with a hand at her elbow, until she had no choice but to meet his eye.

"Ready for what, Bones?" he repeated. "Talk to me. Another twelve hours isn't gonna change your mind if you've already made your decision."

It was hard to get the words out; even harder to look Temperance in the eye, watching the way her face changed. Tears started, but then a second later she got a hold of herself and went still.

"I don't think this is right," she said quietly. "It shouldn't be this hard." A single tear leaked out, and she brushed it away. "I can't do it anymore. I think perhaps some people simply weren't meant for a relationship. I have my work – "

"Bones," he said, just as quiet. He hadn't meant it to sound so naked.

She stopped. Crossed her arms over her chest defiantly, her chin tipped up and her eyes flashing.

"You said you wanted us to talk."

"I do," he said, meaning it for the first time in a long time.

He sat her down on the bench, then took a seat beside her. Besides the squawking of those few birds on the little pond, the place was silent. It felt like he and Bones were the last people on the planet.

"I know things have been rough lately, and I know that's my fault." He looked at her, waiting for her to say something.

She didn't.

"I'll take that as a yes. So… yeah. I know things have been rough, and I haven't been as open as you deserve. But here's the thing, Bones – "

She looked at him then, interest slowly edging out both the sadness and the anger. He was grateful, at least, for that.

"The thing is…" he took a deep breath. "I deserve another chance. Unless you know without a doubt that you don't wanna be with me – unless you've decided that you don't, you know," he swallowed hard, but kept going, "love me anymore, then… I deserve a second chance. _We _deserve a second chance."

She didn't say anything for a few seconds. All of a sudden she got up again and made for the pond. Booth followed, but it was a while before she finally turned and looked at him.

"Sweets says the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

Her jaw was set, arms crossed over her chest, but there was something in her eyes that gave him hope. Whatever she said, he could tell she hadn't closed the door completely. Not yet.

He took her hands, carefully unfolding her arms and pulling her just a little closer, so they were facing each other.

"Then we won't do the same thing, Bones. Okay? You want me to talk, I'll talk." She didn't say anything. He took a deep breath. "Go ahead – ask me anything. Deepest, darkest secret you can think of. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

It was the only thing he had to give, he realized.

He just hoped it was enough.

It was enough, at least, to get her interested. She thought for a couple of seconds. Booth had the uneasy feeling he might not like where this led. Finally, she fixed him with her blue eyes, staring him down, the slightest hint of a challenge in the way she tipped her head, the way she set her jaw.

"Why do you always change the subject when I talk about what happened in Portland?"

Something must have crossed his face, a flicker of just how much he didn't want to have this conversation, because Bones moved away from him. Not much – maybe just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to notice.

"Jeez, Bones – you couldn't start with something easy, like where do we go when we die, or where do babies come from?"

Instead of getting the joke, Bones just looked confused. Then hurt. Then pissed – a whole storm of emotions that passed in an instant, and Booth knew it was time to get in the game before he blew this completely.

"Hey – I'm kidding, Bones. I'm sorry." He nodded toward the bench. She didn't move, even when he took a seat on the cold wood. "C'mon, Bones. Sit."

Another second's hesitation, before she finally settled beside him. He turned a little so he could face her. Remembered another bench, another time – him telling her things he'd never told another soul, her hand in his for the first time.

He took a breath, and did what he didn't have the guts to do back then: Looked her in the eye.

"You wanna know why I don't talk about Oregon?"

She nodded, the challenge in her eyes fading now that he was really giving in, vulnerability replacing it.

"What do you remember about that night?" he asked. Didn't want to, because it would mean dragging her – dragging them – back there, and it was the last place on the planet he ever wanted to go again.

She thought about it. "Not a lot," she finally confessed. "I remember the cold. The rain." She got quiet – testing him, he thought, to see if she could really trust him with this when he'd let her down so many times before.

"I remember talking to you."

"You mean when I got there?"

She shook her head. Got still, and sad, and distant. Booth felt his throat close up. He found he had to remind himself to breathe.

"When I was alone, hiding. You were everywhere – I would think I couldn't go another step, last another moment. And I would hear your voice, or see you telling me to keep going, no matter what." She paused, looking at him like she was just remembering something. "I thought that perhaps that was the way you feel at times, when you're praying. Though of course I know that you exist, and God is an unquantifiable construct – "

Booth held up a hand, managing a smile. She fell silent, not looking at him anymore. He reached over, careful, like he was working with a wild thing sure to run at the slightest movement, and took her hand.

She looked at him, searching for something. She must have found it, because she didn't pull her hand away.

"I don't remember very much else," she finally said, like she was letting him down. "I don't remember you coming – only that suddenly you were there. There are things I know from reading the reports, but Washington being there, Mickey dying…" She shook her head. Looked down at his hand, playing with his fingers.

"I didn't know that," he said. Why the hell hadn't he known that, he wondered?

"I didn't want to talk about it at first," Bones finally said, when the silence went on too long. "But then it became so frustrating not to remember… to have all these pieces of the night simply erased, not to be able to access them and analyze what had happened…"

He kind of smiled at that. Only Bones would want to remember one of the worst nights of her life so she could look back and analyze it later.

Her hand was cold, which meant her other hand was probably colder. Booth took both of them between his own to try and restore some warmth.

"You wanna know what I remember about that night?"

Bones looked up in a flash, like he'd just tossed her a lifeline. Her eyes were shining, no tears spilled but they were there all the same. She didn't say anything, didn't nod, but Booth figured he knew the answer to the question.

"You died that night." She started to say something, but he stopped her with a shake of his head. "Not really – really, we got you airlifted to the hospital and they warmed you up and set your ankle and you came back to me."

He paused. Swallowed hard, but kept his eyes full on hers. "In my head, though, you died about a thousand times that day – every sick, twisted way you can imagine, from the time they took you the night before to the time when I finally saw your eyes open in the hospital and I knew you were really safe."

The night came back to him in a flash. Bones in the rain, her eyes dead, Mickey's arm wrapped around her neck. He took a quick breath, pushed the image away.

"When I saw you that night…" his hands tightened around hers. "You looked so cold. You were shivering, his clothes plastered to you, torn and bloodied, your face whiter than I've ever seen anyone. I didn't know what he'd done before I got there, how hurt you might be."

"You thought he'd raped me," she said, just realizing it herself. Her voice was even – kind, like she felt bad for him, for Christ's sake. He felt a tear spill when she said it, and let go of her hand just for a second, to brush it away. He nodded, but it took another second before he got his voice back.

"I didn't know. Not until we got you back to the hospital and they did the kit, and they said he hadn't. That whatever happened to you was exposure and falls and running... He hadn't gotten to you. But until then, all I could think was that I hadn't gotten there on time. And I couldn't stand the thought that somebody who would do that to you – " he got choked up again, and stopped to take a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was almost back to normal. He looked her in the eye once more, but he couldn't quite hold back the tears this time.

"I brought him into your life. And I know you say it's not my fault, it's okay, but if I hadn't gotten there when I did, or you hadn't gotten away before he could do more…"

The wrinkle was back in her forehead, and she was watching him like she did sometimes – blue eyes wide, that kind of softness that made him feel more loved, more seen, than he'd ever felt in his life. She reached over and put her hand on his cheek.

"But, Seeley," she said, soft enough to break his heart. "None of those things happened. I did get away. You did get there in time. What happened wasn't your fault – yes, you introduced me to Mickey. But the fact that he was the man he turned out to be – "

She leaned in all of a sudden and kissed him, fast, and them moved back far enough to look him in the eye again.

"I'm all right. And when I'm not al right, I would like to be able to tell you without feeling as though I'm burdening you – "

"You're not burdening me. You can always come to me if you need to talk, Bones."

"Only if you promise to do the same, though. Otherwise, it's not fair. It's not a partnership, any other way."

He kind of smiled. Nodded. "I'm starting to get that, I think."

Things got still between them. He ran a hand down her soft cheek, around to the back of her neck. Thought of how strong she was, how breakable. How many different things she was, and it seemed like he was still just scratching the surface.

"Are we okay?" he whispered, almost afraid of the answer.

She hesitated, long enough to make him think maybe all this had been a wasted effort. Finally swallowed past all the fear and doubt Booth knew she must be feeling.

"We're okay."

He leaned in once the words were out, and did the only thing he'd been wanting to do for days. Moved closer, and their lips met. Pulled her close and her lips parted and they kissed until he knew they were both catching fire, until it felt like her body was melting into his and making love right there on Hodgins's back forty sounded like a pretty damned good plan. But, since he figured Angela and Hodgins were probably inside right about now with their faces pressed to the glass watching this whole thing play out, he decided to forego that last part.

Instead, he pulled back and couldn't swallow his grin at the want in her eyes.

"So, Bones, I've got a favor to ask."

He could tell by the look in her eyes that she was waiting for something sexy – which he'd be happy to give her in spades, just as soon as they had a spare second. For now, though, he had his partner back. And, it turned out, they actually had some work to do.

"Remember how I said I'm going out of town?"

She nodded, the anticipation turning to a sort of glazed sense of duty. "I remember."

"Good. 'Cause I want you to come with me – you've got the bone stuff figured out, and I think I know where we're gonna find our missing horse pill salesman."

Despite everything, there was a spark of interest in her eyes. "Where?"

"There's a plane leaving for Kentucky in an hour. You with me?"

If she wasn't getting sex, apparently adventure was a pretty good substitute. Bones nodded. They stood up, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they walked away from the pond. She leaned into him, but he could still feel a tiny reserve between them, could tell she wasn't ready to trust him just yet after everything he'd put her through. That was okay, though - he had another chance. They had a plane waiting and a killer to catch. And somewhere along the way, he'd convince Bones he was never going anywhere again.

TBC


	8. Chapter Seven

"You okay, Bones?" Booth asked.

They were on the highway, in a rented SUV they'd compromised on at the Louisville airport. Larger than a Prius, smaller than a Lincoln Navigator. It was dusk, and she realized suddenly that they had been driving in silence for some time.

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the passing landscape. "Yes."

There were other things to say, of course, but she had no real idea where to begin. The plane ride had been equally awkward. Booth had insisted on flying business class, as always, saying that now that he was heading the investigation there would be even more scrutiny focused on his spending. She had flown with him, against her better judgment. The seats were crowded, and a child was coughing behind them. Booth held her hand on the flight, until she needed it back to use the restroom.

He didn't reclaim it when she sat back down, and she didn't offer.

As they were touching down, the thought occurred to her that perhaps they were broken. The temporary break up, or fight, or whatever it had been, had actually damaged the relationship in such a way as to render it irreparable.

"Angela said we should have sex," she said, after another two minutes or more of silence in the car.

Booth glanced at her in surprise, before quickly returning his eyes to the road when they drifted toward oncoming traffic. "What? When?"

"Before I left – when she took me aside while I was supposed to be packing my things," she explained calmly. It was five-thirty, the highway dark and uninhabited. Booth didn't say anything, apparently waiting for her to elaborate.

"She said make-up sex is an important part of the reconciliation process. But if you wait too long after making up, you lose the passion and the…" she tried to recall Angela's exact words, "heat. And then things become stilted and awkward, but sex dissipates any residual tension."

Booth was silent for a moment. "Oh." He scratched his chin, and she saw him glance at the clock on the dashboard. "Did you want…?"

She considered it. Sex would be nice – sex with Booth was actually _always _nice. But…

"I don't really believe we have time," she said.

She couldn't tell if Booth looked relieved or disappointed.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Don't want to keep them waiting."

"Exactly," Brennan agreed.

She wasn't entirely certain whether she was relieved or disappointed, either.

Booth called Parker shortly thereafter and put him on speaker phone. Brennan suspected it was a tactic to fill the uneasy silence between them, but she didn't say so.

"Hey, bub, how's the weekend?"

"Are you in the car?" Parker asked immediately. "It sounds like you're in the car."

"Yep. On a case."

There was a pause. "On a case where? I thought you said you'd be around this week." There was the faintest hint of a whine in his tone.

"We're only here for the night," Brennan interceded.

"Bones? You brought Bones with you?" She smiled at his enthusiasm. "Are you guys back together?"

"Hey, whoever said we were apart?" Booth protested before Brennan could say anything. "We're still thick as thieves, Parks. Don't worry your pretty little head about that."

"I hate it when you call me pretty, Dad."

The three of them chatted about the weather in Kentucky versus the weather in DC, Christmas plans that Parker never seemed to tire of discussing – despite the fact that Brennan could see no discernible difference between the plans they had now and the plans they'd had when they talked about Christmas a month ago, - and what they'd all been doing for their weekends. When the call was winding down, Parker hesitated before finally coming to a point Brennan felt sure he'd been worried about since the call began.

"So, Dad, about Tuesday…"

Booth glanced at Brennan. "What about Tuesday, Parks?"

She could hear the little boy groan into the receiver. "You forgot. I knew you'd forget."

"He didn't forget, Parker," Brennan said quickly. "Your Dad knows all about the field trip he's chaperoning at the National Zoo for the Junior Agents," she looked at Booth significantly. He mouthed, "Thank you," to her silently, and she smiled.

"Yep, I know all about it," Booth said smoothly. "And that's at what, eleven o – "

"Two," Brennan interrupted.

"Right. Two o'clock. The National Zoo, Tuesday afternoon. Be there or be a monkey's uncle. Got it."

"All the other dads will be there," Parker warned. "And they'll probably be there early."

"I'll be there, Parks. Ten fifty-nine on the dot, bub."

They said their goodbyes, and Booth hung up. He was silent for a moment before he shook his head. "Shit. I forgot."

"I assumed."

"Why does he need to do so much stuff? He's got Boy Scouts, he's got Junior Agents, he's got Junior Squint Squad… I hung out in the street with an old two-by-four and a baseball 'til I was old enough to get a job."

Brennan smirked at him.

"And now you're laughing at me."

She shook her head. "No. But I think it's good Parker does these things – and I think it's good that he can rely on you for them. You're a good father."

"I've met the other Junior Agents and the other Junior Agent dads, too, and they're not all they're cracked up to be. Most of the guys are desk jockeys at the Bureau whose kids are gonna grow up to be bigger desk jockeys."

"Well, it's nice you can share that charitable spirit with Parker," she said dryly.

"Okay, now you really are laughing at me."

She squelched a smile. "Maybe." She stretched, and looked out the window at more miles of Kentucky greenery and absurd road signs. "But I have to do something to pass the time."

At some point during the drive, she fell asleep. It began to rain, and the sound of raindrops on the steel body of the car leeched into her dream world… There was cold, and someone waiting for her, and she was locked inside a space too small to escape. When she awoke, they were driving down a long unpaved road, no lights in any direction. Dogs were barking. She realized that it had been a dream, that she was safe, but the panic hadn't receded yet. She felt Booth staring at her.

"Hey," he said quietly. He stopped the car in the middle of the road.

She looked at him. Her hands were clenched together tightly, her nails digging crescents into the flesh of her palm. Booth put a hand in hers, gently nudging her fingers apart.

"We're almost there."

She nodded. It was difficult to take a full breath.

"Bad dream?" he asked.

Another nod. His hand was warm in hers, his thumb rubbing soothing circles in the same area she'd marked with her nails just moments before.

"You have them a lot," he said. It wasn't a question.

She wasn't certain how to respond. The barking dogs weren't quieting around them, and the rain had increased. She suddenly didn't want to go any farther – to meet these people whose daughter had been taken from them. It was selfish, she realized, but the desire was strong regardless.

"I do," she admitted after a moment. "Sweets said they should go away in time. Or at least decrease in frequency."

"You talked to Sweets about your nightmares?"

He didn't sound angry – instead, he sounded hurt. Despite Booth's reassurances, she realized that she didn't seem to be getting any better at navigating a relationship. She still said thoughtless things, still misinterpreted his silences and didn't get his jokes and said and did things to hurt him when that was the very last thing she ever intended.

She tensed. "Not to any great length. I merely asked if I could expect to live with them for the rest of my life, or if eventually they might… stop."

"Hey, Bones," he said quietly. She was looking out the window, trying to see through the darkness, to gain some information about where they were and how far their destination might be. At his words, she turned to face him.

He moved closer to her, taking both hands in his own. "It's okay, I get it – why you'd talk to him, I mean. I'm just sorry I wasn't there for you, you know? You've been going through something, and I've been too wrapped up in my own crap to even notice."

She wanted to tell him that he _had_ been there for her – certainly no one else would have noticed those moments when her hands clenched and her chest tightened and the world closed in. No one else but Booth would have known to take her hand in those instances, to quietly remind her to breathe. She wanted to tell him that _she_ was the one who hadn't been there; the one who didn't know how to help him, the way he had always helped her.

Instead, she stared at his hands holding hers for a moment, then bit her lip awkwardly.

"We should go. They'll be waiting for us."

He nodded. Instead of putting the car in drive again, however, he leaned in and kissed her. Soft, tender, long and slow. She felt herself melting into him. Perhaps Angela had been right about the sex.

"We're gonna be okay, Bones. I believe that," he said quietly.

"You don't know that," she said, after a time. It hurt to say it out loud, as though the words alone were breaking something precious. When she looked at Booth, she was relieved to see that it didn't seem to concern him at all, however. Instead, he brushed the hair back from her forehead and looked at her with that maddening confidence she'd been missing lately.

"Yeah, Bones, I do. I know right now I've screwed things up a little, and maybe you don't trust me the way you have before. But you and me? We're gonna make it. You can take that to the bank."

"You can't predict the future," she told him.

"Don't be so sure, babe. Now, we can sit here and keep fighting in the middle of the boondocks, or we can go solve this case. Your choice."

Angela's advice came back once more. She flushed at the thought of moving this exchange to the backseat, thus avoiding – or at least delaying – any lengthy conversations with distraught parents. Booth was still close in the car, his smile lopsided and his eyes warm on her own. She moved closer and kissed him when he wasn't expecting it.

She hadn't meant for the kiss to escalate quite so quickly. But somehow Booth's tongue swept past her lips, her hand fisted in his jacket, and the only thing that kept them from a complete, Angela-style reconciliation then and there was the gear shift between them and the barking dogs just outside.

"We should go," she whispered to him when their lips finally parted. He rested his forehead against hers.

"Christ," he said softly. "Zero to sixty, Bones. Every time. There's not another woman on the planet who's ever had the effect on me that you do. _That's _how I know we're gonna make it."

She rolled her eyes. It probably should have been annoying, this assertion that they were meant to be together and, thus, nothing could – or would – keep them apart. Tonight, however, she had to admit that it was more reassuring than anything else. She said nothing more, and withdrew to her side of the car. After a moment, Booth shifted himself in his jeans, put the car in drive, and they continued on their way.

* * *

When they pulled into the brightly lit home of the Lincoln family, they had only a moment before the car was surrounded by children, dogs, goats, and Maylene Lincoln – the matriarch of the family – standing at the top step of the porch.

"Give him a second to get out of the car, boys," the woman shouted to a trio of blonde boys all vying for Booth's attention. At least four full-coated, lithe collies joined in the reception as Brennan walked around the car to stand uneasily beside Booth.

"Hey, guys," Booth greeted them with a warm smile. "Long time, no see. This is my partner, Bo – Dr. Brennan. Bones, this is Ryan," he nodded to the smallest of the children, "Billy, and Daniel," the last names referring to two pre-pubescent boys who may or may not have been fraternal twins. Each boy shook her hand solemnly before returning their attention to Booth once more.

"Did you find 'em yet?" This from either Billy or Daniel – Brennan couldn't tell which.

"Give me a few days, would you?" Booth said easily. "We're making progress, guys. It takes a little time."

"If it was Daddy, he woulda got 'em by now," the littlest one said.

Maylene interrupted the reunion by charging down the front steps into the fray. She hugged Booth, then shook Brennan's hand warmly before Booth could say a word.

"I see I was right about that pretty girl waitin' on you back home, Agent Booth."

Booth's hand fell automatically to the small of Brennan's back as he made introductions. They went inside the small farmhouse, where dinner was waiting. Booth inquired after Sheriff Lincoln and the bald collie he had befriended on his first visit to the farm, and was told the Sheriff had taken the dog with him on a late call. Both Sheriff and collie would be home soon. In the meantime, the boys kept them entertained through a huge southern meal that Booth devoured and Brennan picked at until Maylene looked concerned.

"I s'pose it's not the kind of thing you're probably used to in the city," the woman said, not without kindness.

Brennan shook her head quickly. "No, it's very good," she assured her. The table was filled with fried steak, okra, sweet potatoes, homemade rolls, all slathered with what tasted like freshly made butter. Brennan's stomach hadn't stopped churning since her dream in the car, however, and it didn't seem like the best idea to introduce a mountain of fried food and rich dairy into the equation.

"You feel okay?" Booth asked quietly, once everyone's attention had been diverted to other matters.

"I'm fine – a little tired."

He nodded. Her eyes returned to her food, but she noticed that his focus remained on her for several seconds more. Booth and the boys chatted about sports, activities on the farm, their lives in school. Maylene told them about the craft fair she was attending at the end of the month, a benefit for the collies she rescued. Brennan felt herself growing more uncomfortable as the evening wore on, checking her watch repeatedly to find that time was barely passing at all.

Finally, just after seven o'clock, Maylene directed her attention at Brennan.

"So, Dr. Brennan, what is it you do, exactly?"

"I'm a forensic anthropologist," she said. "I work with skeletal remains to determine pertinent facts about a subject's life and death."

"She works with bones," Booth translated.

"Gross," the youngest said, in the same tone Parker typically said, "Cool."

"So, you guys work together to catch the bad guys – like the ones who killed our sister."

"Billy," Maylene said quietly. There was a clear warning in her tone.

The boy lowered his eyes to his plate. "Sorry," he mumbled, though Brennan was unclear what, exactly, he had to be sorry about.

"It's all right," Brennan reassured him. "I mean – I'm happy to answer any questions you might have."

"Bones," Booth said, with much the same warning Maylene's voice had just registered.

The boys were looking at her curiously. She thought of her own childhood after her parents had vanished – all the questions she'd had, and how frustrating it had been when everyone consistently refused to answer them. She would never understand why adults insisted on treating children as delicate little imbeciles who must always be handled with such care.

Maylene took a deep breath, then slowly nodded. "All right, boys – I know there are things your Daddy can't quite bring himself to say. You got about twenty minutes before he walks through that door and sends you upstairs. If Dr. Brennan's ready for it, you give her your best shot."

For the next fifteen minutes, Brennan endeavored to answer the boys' questions with as much honesty as she could. Booth sat silently by as she explained what they had found from Izzie Lincoln's remains: the fact that the child had no significant injuries, how Brennan had identified her bones, how they were handled at the Jeffersonian and where they would go next.

There was a long moment of silence after the last question, before the second-to-the oldest – Daniel, Brennan now knew – asked to be excused. She was disconcerted to note that he had tears in his eyes. When Maylene agreed, he pushed his chair back with such force that it nearly toppled to the floor, before he rushed up the stairs without saying goodnight. Maylene stood.

"I'm sorry," Brennan said. "I should have – "

Maylene shook her head. "Don't you apologize, sugar. You did exactly what I asked you to do, and exactly what these boys needed." Ryan and Billy were silent, their eyes on their plates. The entire room was thick with tension. Maylene addressed the boys.

"You boys go on up, finish your homework and get ready for bed. I'm gonna go talk to Danny, then I'll come tuck you in."

The boys left without argument. Both said polite goodnights to Booth and Brennan, but the joy was gone from their eyes. Once they were alone again, Brennan didn't say anything for a moment. Not certain if she should be apologizing, and – if so – what for.

"They'll be all right," Booth said.

"I didn't mean to upset them. It just seems as though if they have questions, it would be kinder to answer them."

"It is," he agreed. She realized that she'd been expecting an argument. "You were great with them, Bones – the same way you are with Parker, which is why all of a sudden he's comin' to you instead of his old man. Chances are, they've needed the talk they're having right now for about four years." He shrugged. "You did good."

"It doesn't feel good," she said.

He sighed. He looked tired. "Nothing about this case feels good, babe. Not a fuckin' thing."

While they waited for Maylene to come back downstairs, they cleared the table and washed the dishes. The kitchen was small, painted white with cheerful yellow accents and Bible verses embroidered on several wall hangings. Booth seemed very at home there, while Brennan felt as though she were doing an anthropological study of some foreign culture. It made her wonder again at their compatibility – wouldn't Booth be better suited to a woman who could give him this kind of life? Children and home-cooked food and a prayer at the beginning of every meal?

They talked very little while cleaning up, confining the conversation to the finer points of the case and how the next day would proceed. At eight o'clock, they heard the sheriff's car coming up the drive. Maylene was still upstairs with the boys, and had been for half an hour. Brennan wondered if her shoddy understanding of child psychology had wounded the Lincoln boys irreparably.

Maylene returned when she heard the dogs barking, wiping her eyes as she came down the stairs.

"Do me a favor," she said hurriedly to them both, "and don't tell Bill I let you talk to the boys about this. He's still so tied up about what happened to Izzie, he can't see straight. They had questions and they needed answers, but their Daddy's not ready yet."

"Not a problem," Booth agreed. Maylene took Brennan's hand just before her husband came through the door and squeezed it tightly. There were tears in her eyes.

"Thank you for talking to them like they matter," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "Danny and Izz were the best of friends – then she up and disappears and he's not allowed to say her name, ask what happened, talk about how much he misses her. He needed tonight."

"It was no trouble," Brennan said. Booth gave her a small smile. They waited for the sheriff.

Sheriff Bill Lincoln was a tall, broad, commanding man who barely said hello to either of them before announcing that he needed to get cleaned up before sitting down to a late dinner. Following in his wake was a painfully thin collie missing most of her hair. As soon as the sheriff was out of the room, Booth's attention turned to the collie.

"What happened?" he asked Maylene. "I thought she wasn't due for another month." The dog walked stiffly to Booth, her tail wagging from between her legs. Brennan remembered that Booth had said the dog was expecting a litter when he'd been here less than a week ago.

"Seems like it's been a heck of a week for everybody," the woman told them. Brow furrowed, Booth pet the dog, who pressed her head into his chest and stood that way for several seconds. Brennan knelt beside him, running her hand over the collie's prominent ribs.

"She went into labor on Wednesday," Maylene told them. "Too early, turns out. We lost four of the six pups that night, then she did her best to take care of the ones who lived but the poor thing's been too sickly to make more'n a drop of milk. A friend of mine just whelped a litter though, and the mama's milk hadn't dried up. She took over. Dosha's taken it kinda hard… She's been looking all over the place for those pups. Won't eat. Just wanders around cryin' for her babies."

Brennan's fingers swept along the thin neck, where she quickly found a deep scar from what she assumed had been an embedded collar. Booth whispered something to the dog that Brennan couldn't hear, and straightened.

"What about her new owners – are they coming for her soon? It seems like the best thing would be for her to just start fresh now."

Maylene's face darkened. "Well, turns out when they read the blurb about Dosha they didn't get too far past champion bloodlines and fancy schmancy pedigree. Once they saw the shape she's in and found out not only were they not gonna be breeding her anymore, but she sure as hell wouldn't make it to the show circuit in this lifetime, they kinda lost interest. Honest to God, makes me want to give up on the human race altogether sometimes."

"We'll take her," Brennan said. She was still crouching beside the dog, who had transferred her attention from Booth now that he was engrossed in the conversation with Maylene. Dosha had eyes the color of warm caramel and a habit of pawing with her left foot, Brennan noticed.

Booth raised his eyebrows at her. "Bones – I thought we were gonna get a puppy. I mean… Maybe a puppy. Later. Once we have a house. And jobs that don't take us all over the – "

"You said you wanted a dog," she interrupted, with more vehemence than she'd intended. "We don't have time for a puppy – you know that."

Maylene nodded toward the stairs, giving Booth a significant glance that Brennan suspected she was not meant to notice. "I'm just gonna go check on Bill while you two get things sorted out. We'll be down shortly."

She left them alone in the dining room once more, Booth still standing. Brennan crouching, the bald collie seated in front of her with her left paw on Brennan's knee.

"Bones – "

Brennan stood. "She doesn't have to be yours if you don't want her. But after Ripley last year, I don't want to hesitate. She doesn't have anyone," her voice cracked unexpectedly on these words. She took a moment to gather herself once more. "I can afford the care she'll need, and bring her to work with me when I'm home. Max could watch her when we're out of town."

Booth shook his head. He knelt once more, gently roughing the scant fur around the dog's ears.

"I'm pretty sure this isn't what Parker meant when he said he wanted a dog."

"We'll get a puppy once the house is built," she assured him. Booth was silent for so long that she finally turned to find him staring at her, a small smile on his lips.

"What?"

"I'm just waiting 'til you realize what you just said so you can start backpedaling, babe."

She thought back. Felt herself flush when the realization came, but kept her eyes on Booth's.

"Do you still want to build a house together?" she asked. She tried to keep the uncertainty from her voice, but was unsuccessful.

He shrugged. "I don't know, Bones," he said. Stuffed his hands into his pockets. Leaned against the wall, tilting his head. "It's a big step. I don't know if you're ready for it."

She rolled her eyes. Sighed. "I don't like you – you know that, don't you?"

"And yet, you're talkin' about us building a house together," Booth quipped. Before they could continue the banter, he came to her and wrapped his arms around her tightly. Kissed her forehead, then her nose.

"Let's build a house together."

"Not right away."

"Of course not, Bones," he said. "So… Y'know, we wait. Two, three days at least. Maybe a week."

"Booth," she said seriously.

"Bones," he said, just as seriously.

"I'm open to discussion – isn't that what you wanted? We can talk about it."

"Oh no, that's not what you said a second ago. A second ago, it sounded like you were ready to break ground."

She didn't say anything for a moment. Booth rocked her lightly in his arms, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Hey," he said quietly, all trace of kidding aside. "I wanna do it, okay? If you're not ready right now, that's all right – but I think you are ready, and it's scarin' the crap out of you. It doesn't have to happen today. It doesn't have to happen tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere, Bones."

For the moment, she chose to let the subject drop. Knowing Booth as she did, there was little doubt in her mind that it would come up again. "So, we can have this dog?"

He laughed. It felt good – the way he held her, the way he laughed. She kissed him on the mouth, his fingers twined in her hair.

"Yeah, Bones," he said softly. "We can have this dog."

* * *

By the time Sheriff Lincoln had showered and was ready to sit down for dinner, it was nearly nine o'clock. Maylene said she wasn't feeling well and excused herself to go to bed, leaving the three of them alone in the dining room. The Christmas tree was lit in the other room, casting shadows in red and green along the walls. The house smelled of freshly baked bread and smoke from the woodstove. A pair of collies lay at the sheriff's feet; occasionally, he would drop a piece of food for them. Brennan noticed that he took great care to make sure both dogs received an equal share of the spoils.

It was a small thing, but it made her like him.

"Tomorrow morning, we'll go out to the Ridge. I don't know what it'll tell you, but you can get the lay of the land and maybe talk to some of the boys who remember what happened."

Booth was silent for a moment. Maylene had provided fresh blackberry pie for desert. Brennan had taken a small piece that she was still working on, while Booth had already devoured his and taken a second portion.

"I thought maybe we'd talk to _you_ about the Ridge first," Booth said.

"I'll tell you what I can," Lincoln replied, "but like I said on the phone, I don't remember all that much."

Booth hesitated again. Brennan watched him, aware that he had information he had yet to share with her.

"With all due respect, Sheriff, I don't think that's true."

The sheriff tilted his head slightly and looked Booth in the eye. He seemed to be considering something – the wisdom of lying, Brennan thought. Finally, he returned his attention to the half-eaten steak on his plate.

"How'd you find out?"

"Just made sense," Booth said. "Everybody else has a direct tie - direct relatives of the guys who were there, in most cases. And then there's you, with the Ridge in your backyard. You would've been just about the right age, and yet you say you've only heard stories…" He shrugged. "It didn't add up."

The sheriff nodded. "No, I s'pose it didn't. You've gotta remember, though – it wasn't exactly my finest hour. Wasn't any of ours."

He was silent for another moment, then pushed his plate away abruptly and stood. "I won't talk about it here – I'm not gonna bring that ugliness into my home. Tomorrow. Wake up call's at dawn, and we'll drive out there. I'll give you the story then."

Lincoln studied them both for a moment; Brennan had the uneasy feeling she was being evaluated.

"I don't see a ring on anybody's hand. Not married yet?"

It was the kind of question she would typically have taken offense at. The smile on Lincoln's lips, however, took the edge from the remark.

"We're not married," Brennan confirmed.

She noticed that Booth didn't say anything. Lincoln nodded.

"That's fine. May made up a couple rooms for you – Dr. Brennan, you'll get Malcolm's room. I'll show you the way. Agent Booth, the boys've turned the basement into a game room. There's a futon down there."

"We were actually going to stay at a motel," Brennan started to protest.

"Nearest motel's an hour away – by the time you get there, you'll get a couple hours sleep and then have to turn around and come right on back. You'll stay here."

It was, apparently, not a point up for debate.

* * *

When Brennan was saying goodnight to Booth, the Sheriff just down the hall from them, he handed her a manila folder.

"You should take a look at this tonight – just to get up to speed on some of the case."

She looked at him quizzically. "I've already looked at all of the files. I'm as up to speed as – "

He stopped her with an exasperated look. "Just read it, okay, Bones? Don't make a federal case out of it. Why've you gotta argue with everything I say?"

The Sheriff returned to them then. Brennan took the file, curious despite herself. "Fine. I'll read the file."

The room Brennan was relegated to by Sheriff Lincoln apparently belonged to their oldest son, who was away at school. She and Dosha went up the three flights of stairs together, the collie walking so close beside her that the slender muzzle bumped against her thigh. As soon as she was alone in the bedroom, Brennan opened the file Booth had forced on her. A scrap of paper fluttered to the hardwood floor.

"Meet me in the basement at 11:00. Please." Written in Booth's distinctive handwriting, signed simply with the letter S.

It was ten o'clock. Brennan wasn't particularly tired, and she was curious about what Booth had in mind for their covert meeting… Still, the Lincoln household had so far inspired little of the ease with which Booth seemed to regard the place. Instead, she felt claustrophobic and judged – it reminded her of some of the foster homes she'd stayed in as a child, as though the slightest misstep could result in serious disfavor from the owners.

In the eldest Lincoln child's bedroom, there was sports memorabilia on the walls and a women's swimsuit calendar covertly pinned on the inside of the closet door – which Brennan never would have found, had she not been searching for an extra blanket to try and stay warm. Because, as it turned out, the Lincoln family's upstairs was not heated in any perceptible way. She and Dosha huddled under the blankets on the tiny twin bed trying to stay warm while her mind spun from topic to topic like a whirling dervish. She thought about the case, of course – about Izzie Lincoln, and Arnold Billings, and the two small girls who had been the most recent discoveries. She thought about Black Ridge, and the fact that Sheriff Lincoln apparently had played a much larger role in the incident than he'd been willing to admit initially. She thought about how Booth believed they would find two more victims to correspond with the six killed by the police on the Ridge in 1978; she believed he was correct. Whenever those two victims were recovered, however, she found it disconcerting to try to anticipate what might happen next.

And through all of this, she found herself thinking about Booth. And specifically, about she and Booth. She'd told him they could think about building a house together, but the fact of the matter was that she'd already been thinking about them building a house together. And even during all of the chaos and angst of the past several days, she'd _still _been thinking about them building a house together. Which made it all the more painful when it seemed that none of those plans they were making would ever see the light of day.

Relying on someone else for one's happiness was, in a word, absurd. And yet, she couldn't seem to stop doing it.

She sighed and rolled over in the small bed, disrupting Dosha. It was five minutes past eleven, according to the electric green numbers on the nightstand alarm clock. Another few minutes of debate, and finally, at quarter past, she gave up. Leaving the sleeping collie where she lay, Brennan quietly opened the bedroom door and crept down the stairs.

Booth was watching TV in the basement, which had none of the heating issues the upstairs bedroom had. In fact, it was quite the opposite – she knocked softly on the door but he didn't hear her, and so Brennan opened it quietly. Booth was lying on top of the blankets in his boxer shorts and nothing more, watching a late-night talk show. The room was sweltering.

He was lying on his side, writing intently, his attention focused entirely on the legal pad by his side. Several manila folders were scattered across the futon that served as his bed. For a moment, Brennan just stood there – overwhelmed by the tangle of emotions she experienced at the sight of him. The physical need for him, sometimes, was staggering to her. Seeley Booth was an extraordinary physical specimen, in every way. Though he would hardly be appreciative of the sentiment, Brennan believed she found him every bit as beautiful as he claimed he found her.

She cleared her throat, and Booth sat bolt upright. When he caught sight of her, he grinned widely.

"Hey! I was afraid you were gonna stand me up."

He set the files aside and stood. Brennan took in the rest of the space for the first time, noting a badly scarred pool table in the corner, a ragged couch and matching chair, and a mini-refrigerator against one wall. Though Booth was the one who was barely dressed, she felt unaccountably self-conscious.

"You wanted to see me?" she said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Sorry – it's a little warm in here. I think they've got one of those old-fashioned boilers or something. But I figured we'd have a better shot at being able to talk down here than upstairs."

When he took a step closer to her, she could see a sheen of perspiration on his skin.

"Talk about…?" she prompted, when he didn't say anything for a few seconds.

She found herself staring at his well-muscled chest, the definition in his calves and thighs. Her mouth had gone dry.

Booth smiled at her. "Hey, eyes up here, babe," he quipped, tilting her chin up until their eyes locked. "The case. I wanted you to come down and talk about the case. I had a couple ideas I wanted to bounce off you, once we started talking to Lincoln."

"Oh," she said. She sounded disappointed. "I thought…"

Booth stepped closer still, with a cocky smile. "That I was calling you down here to have my way with you, so we can finally get to that make-up sex Angela was so gung ho about?" he correctly guessed.

"No. I – well, not exactly. It wouldn't have been appropriate."

He ran a hand through his hair and finally closed the distance between them. Took her hands in his own. They stood that way, face to face, bodies close but not quite touching.

"Trust me, there's not a thing I want on the planet more than that right now," he said. The teasing tone left his voice. "But somehow it doesn't seem like this is the right place for that. But I still… I didn't just want you down here for the case, Bones. I like our debriefs at the end of the day, you know?" He shrugged. "I like to hear how your day went, bore you with all the stupid crap I think about, torture you with baseball stats…

"You're my best friend, Bones. At the end of the day, you're the voice I wanna hear. I know I haven't done a great job of it lately, but you're the one I want to tell all my stupid crap to."

She felt the heat from his body burning her own, an ache starting somewhere so deep that in her entire life, Booth had been the only one to reach it.

"So, you really just want to talk?" she finally asked, once she was able to regain her voice.

Booth laughed. "God, no." The fact that his boxer shorts were already prominently tented made his agreement that much more apparent. He took a step away from her, blushing slightly.

"See, this is what you do to me. But… Yeah, I'm serious. Still, I thought maybe you could stay a little while and talk before you turn in?"

This time, there was no need to hesitate. She rolled her eyes. Pulled the sweatshirt she'd been wearing over her head to reveal the tank top beneath, and couldn't deny her pride at Booth's approving moan.

"What're you, trying to kill me?"

"It's ninety degrees in here," she informed him. "If you get to be half-naked while we sit here and talk about the case and don't have sex, I believe I should have the same right."

He didn't argue.

They talked until one a.m., interrupted periodically with frantic kissing and – much to Brennan's displeasure – absolutely nothing more, before they conceded that it would probably be safest to part ways for the night. She crept up the stairs to the freezing third-floor bedroom and passed the remainder of the night under the covers with Dosha, more content than she had been in some time.

* * *

The next morning, Maylene had breakfast waiting for them. Because Booth and Brennan would not be returning to the Lincolns afterward, it was decided that they would follow the Sheriff in their own vehicle and stop somewhere along the way to get the details of the case. Maylene bid Dosha a tearful goodbye, providing papers and pages of instructions as she helped settle the collie in the backseat. Dosha licked the woman's face, circled twice, and lay down. They were barely out of town before the dog was snoring quietly.

Once they were on the road, Brennan found herself increasingly impatient for information on what, exactly, Sheriff Lincoln knew about Black Ridge. Booth was apparently feeling the same way.

"Did you notice anything off about Maylene last night?" he asked.

"I don't know her well enough to know what's on or off," she said. "She seemed fine."

"But when I was here last time, she was making sure I had blankets and packing me lunches and…" he shrugged. "I think they're fighting."

"She and the Sheriff?"

Booth nodded. They were traveling a single-lane highway on the back roads of Kentucky. Brennan noticed that the lawns of even the tiniest houses were immaculately kept, and there wasn't a trace of litter on the roadway. It wasn't what she'd expected of rural Kentucky, for some reason.

"Do you think they're fighting about Izzie?" Brennan asked.

Booth considered. "You lose a kid and it's gotta put one hell of a strain on the marriage," he said. "But I don't feel like that's it. I think there's something going on with him."

They fell silent, each thinking their separate thoughts about the case. So far, there had been no word that the remaining two victims that Booth was anticipating had been found, which meant the last two – Riley White and Penny Farber – had been discovered four days ago. There had been no new developments since that time, and the press – and the public – were getting impatient.

After they'd driven for about half an hour, the Sheriff put on his turn signal and pulled into a roadside diner called Martha's Eat n' Run. Brennan took Dosha for a quick bathroom break, though the harness Maylene had provided in lieu of a collar was continually slipping sideways and only accentuated how painfully thin the collie had become since losing her pups. Once she'd settled the dog once more in the backseat, she went inside to find Booth seated alone at a table in the back of the diner.

"Where's the Sheriff?"

He shook his head in exasperation. "Said he had to wash up. I tried to pin him down on what the hell's going on and he wouldn't tell me a thing. But something's up."

When the Sheriff emerged from the restroom, he sat down and opened his menu without saying a word. Booth looked at Brennan, then at the Sheriff, waited perhaps three seconds, then finally could hold back no longer.

"Look, I understand that you're not looking forward to talking about this," he began, "but we're in the middle of an investigation. I need to know what happened there, who was involved, and where they are now if I'm gonna get to the bottom of who took those kids. And potentially stop something even worse from happening down the – "

"The eggs are good here," the Sheriff cut him off. Booth looked at Brennan incredulously. "And I don't know if you're a fan of grits, but Marty's makes the best around. Bacon's local, juice is fresh."

"Sheriff Lincoln," Booth began again.

The Sheriff set down his menu and looked at Booth calmly. "Order your food, son. We've got places to be."

They ate breakfast in silence.

Just before they left, Lincoln slipped a folded piece of paper to Brennan while Booth was in the restroom. "Follow these directions. I'll see you at 1300."

"1300 wha – the time?" She shook her head. "Wait – we're following you. We're all going together. That was the arrangement we made."

"Arrangement's changed," the Sheriff said shortly. "Follow those directions, they'll get you where you're going. 1300 hours. Watch you're not followed."

She stared after him in amazement as he returned to his truck. When Booth had finally returned, she gave him the piece of paper and told him what Lincoln had told her.

"That we're not followed?" he repeated. "Followed by who?"

"And to where?" she asked.

They looked at the map. According to the directions, they were to travel due east for 170 miles, into the heart of the Appalachians. There was a rest area they were to stop at midway up Black Mountain, the highest peak in Kentucky. There, according to the directions, Lincoln would be waiting. With information.

They returned to their vehicle, and drove.

It was just after twelve-thirty when they reached the rest area. A sense of general un-ease earlier in the day had increased incrementally as time wore on and they received no new information about what was happening or where they were bound. The farther into the mountains they drove, the less Brennan wanted to be there. Gone were the manicured lawns and well-tended highways, replaced by trailers and deeply rutted roads, and miles and miles of nothing but trees stripped bare by the winter winds and mountains whose beauty seemed the perfect camouflage for whatever ugliness Brennan felt they were about to uncover at Black Ridge.

The rest area was empty, with the exception of a tractor trailer truck with its owner smoking a cigarette in the front cab and a drab green pickup parked in front of the restrooms.

Booth glanced at his watch. "We've got twenty minutes before Lincoln shows. I'm gonna call in, see if I can get some news from Werner."

Brennan nodded. "I'll take Dosh to stretch her legs. Meet you back here in a few minutes?"

He looked uncomfortable. It was still there, she realized – the fear that whatever horrors he'd experienced on the night she was taken would somehow return. She would be taken, he would be left to find her and bring her to safety in the nick of time. She wondered if this would be the way the yalways felt. And if either of them could live this way if they did.

"There's a trail, just out behind here. I won't go far," she promised. It should have been annoying, but she knew from experience that he wasn't trying to be difficult.

"Fifteen minutes, Bones. Any longer and I'm callin' in the Guard."

"What guard?"

He shook his head, rolled his eyes. "Forget it. Just go walk your dog. I'll be wandering around trying to find a cell signal in this friggin' place."

She and Dosha walked a heavily wooded trail, their footsteps hushed by a thick bed of wet fallen leaves. Once they were out of sight of the road, she knelt and removed the harness from the dog's slender frame.

"Okay, I'm doing this with the understanding that you'll stay with me," she told the collie seriously. "If you run away, there's very little chance that I can stay here and look for you."

Dosha's tail waved hesitantly once or twice, but Brennan noted with satisfaction that she made no move to run off. They walked through the woods together, Dosha trotting contentedly by her side. The more they walked, the more enthusiastically the dog's tail wagged, which was how Brennan managed to lose track of time. She glanced at her watch and realized it was three minutes until one o'clock, the time Lincoln had designated for them all to meet.

"Damn. All right – back to work."

She turned around and patted her thigh. Dosha was by her side in an instant and they were headed back the way they'd come. It was cool enough for a sweater, but too warm for the heavy jacket Brennan was wearing. She removed it and draped it over her arm, enjoying the bite of cold as she sped her pace.

It was a twig snap behind her that triggered the memory, she realized later – a single, seemingly innocuous noise that sent her spiraling into a panic so deep that taking another step was out of the question. Taking another breath, suddenly, seemed unlikely. She heard footsteps behind her. It was raining. Except that it wasn't raining – she could see that it wasn't raining. The sun was shining, but it was black as night.

She struggled to stay standing.

"Still running, Tempe?" a low, sickeningly familiar voice asked. She flinched. It was impossible to separate past from present, fantasy from reality. Sunlight faded and her line of vision narrowed to a circle of dead leaves at her feet. Breathe in, she reminded herself. Her stomach clenched, and she wondered if she would be sick. Breathe out.

Dosha bumped against her with a whimper. The dog took Brennan's hand gently in her mouth. She took a step, pulling Brennan with her.

The spell was broken.

Brennan gasped. She opened her eyes wide, her breath coming hard as her body fought to regain control. She knelt on the trail and put her arms around Dosha's neck.

"I'm okay," she whispered into the dog's sparse fur. Her heart was beating erratically. Despite her words, Brennan couldn't stop shaking. For the first time, she realized that it might be time to acknowledge something she'd been denying ever since her return from Oregon at the end of the summer:

She wasn't okay. Kneeling in the forest, paralyzed with fear over an incident that was now long past, she wasn't certain she would ever be okay again.

When Brennan emerged from the trail, Booth was standing beside the vending machines with Lincoln and one other man, dressed in combat fatigues. Dosha stopped walking and began to growl. At sight of them, Booth said something to the men and broke away. The look on his face belied his concern.

"Sorry, Bones, but that was way more than fifteen – " something on her face stopped him. He glanced over his shoulder at the others, then lowered his voice as he came closer. "You okay? Did something happen?"

She shook her head. "No, no – I'm fine. I'll tell you later." She struggled to regain concentration. "Who is that?"

"Put Dosh back in the truck and come on over. They wouldn't say anything 'til you got back. Honest to God, Bones, I don't know what the hell's going on."

They sat at a picnic area. The man in fatigues looked to be at least ten years older than Sheriff Lincoln, his gray hair cut military short and his body lean and well-toned. He withdrew a letter that was neatly folded into thirds in his front shirt pocket, and handed it to Booth.

"What the hell's – "

"Just read it, Sergeant," the man said. At the military nomenclature, Booth looked even more confused. Brennan noted that his demeanor changed while he was reading the paper – all trace of annoyance gone, he stood up straighter, his attitude becoming markedly more serious. He started to hand it to Brennan, then paused.

"Is it okay…?"

The man nodded. "She's been cleared."

"Cleared for what? What's – "

"Just read it, Bones."

They waited for her in silence. The letter was stamped by the Secretary of Defense, and gave no details whatsoever about the case at hand. Instead, it contained a general statement about individuals receiving information inextricably linked with national security. She folded the paper and returned it to the man who had just given it to Booth.

"So, are we supposed to sign something stating that we won't tell anyone of the information we learn today?" she asked.

Booth shook his head, never taking his eyes from the man in charge. "There won't be any paperwork on this meeting, Bones. Am I right?"

The man nodded. "That's the best for everyone involved. My name is General Hartwick. As you may have gathered from the letter, the information you are about to receive has been classified at the highest levels of the United States government. If anything I tell you today finds its way to the press or the public sector, I will have you jobs. I will have your homes. You will be tried for treason, and you will be convicted."

Booth stood at attention, his entire body rigid. "Yes, sir."

"No," Brennan interrupted. "I'm sorry, but you can't just come in here and tell us you have secrets pertaining to a federal – "

"Yeah, he can, Bones," Booth cut her off. "Trust me on this one. He can do anything he wants."

The general smiled slightly. "I'm glad to see we understand each other. Now, have a seat."

As they were sitting, Sheriff Lincoln went over to the truck driver Brennan had noticed earlier. She saw him flash his badge and say something; a moment later, the man climbed back into his truck and drove away.

They were alone.

"In 1978," the general finally began, when the three of them were seated at the picnic table, "the Reverend Jim Jones led a massacre in Guyana. Less than forty-eight hours later, acting under the direct orders of the President, a special task force was created to disassemble any fringe groups who might be deemed a threat to the security of the United States or the safety of its citizens."

Booth scratched his neck. His jaw had tensed. "So – the Black Ridge op, then? It wasn't a bunch of hillbilly deputies acting on their own…"

"Hodgins was right," Brennan said. "It was the government?"

"There were aspects of the case that could not be brought to light at the time – "

"You mean aspects like highly trained snipers going in and slaughtering a bunch of little kids?" Booth said. "Yeah, I can see how that might not look great for the president." He hesitated, seeming to realize he'd spoken out of turn. "Sir," he added after a moment.

"Black Ridge was a myth, Sergeant," the general snapped. "It was a fuckin' fairytale. It didn't happen. Five children and a pregnant mother died. Seven of my men also lost their lives, but you won't hear about that. There were heavy casualties on both sides, soldier, so don't feign righteous indignation 'til you've got the facts."

The man's voice had risen, the temporal artery bulging in his forehead. Booth was silent for a moment.

"I apologize, sir." She stared at him. Military Booth was still a mystery to her; it made no sense how a man who flaunted his independence with striped ties and a cocky belt buckle could suddenly transform into someone who accepted orders without hesitation from a man he barely knew.

"Seven soldiers died, sir?" he finally prompted, when the general said nothing more.

And finally, Hartwick began.

"There was a man by the name of Wally Hatchet – a colonel in Nam, airborne division. He stayed for three tours, only came back when Saigon fell in '73. Hatchet was from deep Appalachia. Once he got back from the war, he let the jungles swallow him on the home front."

"And he started a fringe group on Black Ridge," Brennan guessed.

Hartwick nodded. "He did. We'd been watching him for a while, stockpiling food and weapons, recruiting the locals. Women and kids, an armed fortress on a ridge, no way to get in or out."

"So you got the word once the task force was formed," Booth guessed.

The general started to light a cigarette, but stopped when he caught Brennan's eye. He set his lighter down at a right angle to the edge of the table.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said. "Ugly habit." He rolled the cigarette between his fingers.

"We called in a dozen special forces boys from around Kentucky and Tennessee – guys who'd grown up around here, so they'd know how to move deep in the brush. We were led by the Welland Sheriff, a former SEAL by the name of Lucky Chesterfield." He smiled slightly, then surprised Brennan by winking at her. "Tobacco country to the core out here, Dr. Brennan. No doubt about it."

He stood. Walked five steps, lit his cigarette, and inhaled deeply. He took three long drags before putting the cigarette out on a nearby garbage can lid, then tossed the butt into the trash. He was already telling the story again before he returned, his face appearing a shade more drawn than it had been.

"We spent a week following Hatchet's every move up on the Ridge. We knew where he had his weapons, where the kids were, what the routine was."

"So, respectfully, sir, what the hell happened? You've got twelve special forces guys and a crazy ex-Marine with a bunch of kids. No offense, but this doesn't sound like rocket science."

"You ever try to take something from a crazy ex-Marine, Sergeant?" Hartwick returned. "You try to take a goddamn beer from him and you're likely to lose a bucket of blood and a couple arms. You try taking his kids, and things are gonna get messy fast." He sighed.

"But why the elaborate cover up?" Brennan wanted to know. "Why can't you tell people that it was this man's fault – that he was the one who put the children in danger?"

"Because that's the story this country wasn't ready to hear. Keep in mind, it's 1978. We're five years out of a vastly unpopular military conflict and mass casualties from an enemy the American public could never even begin to understand. We've got 900 dead and rumors of government conspiracies. The last thing the U.S. can handle now is a war on its own land with a soldier we trained who's turning children into – " he stopped.

Brennan looked at him, clueless. "Into what?"

He looked at Booth. Booth looked at the table. "Killers," he said.

"What? I don't understand – "

"He learned from Charlie," Hartwick said. "You use what you got, and people stop to think before they'll take down a ten-year-old with a shotgun."

"So, it was an ambush," Booth guessed.

The general shook his head. "It was a massacre. Hatchet had another ex-Marine from 'Nam – they were the leaders. They handpicked kids from the backwoods and started training them. Five years of hard training under the tutelage of psychopaths and a lot of things can go wrong. They booby trapped the ridge. Any child born into the group was trained early on."

"So, that day…" Booth prompted.

Hartwick shook his head. "We choked. They were in the woods – Hatchet and his buddy, and an army of teenage boys. And we were special forces, but my boys were all green – not one of 'em had been anywhere near Saigon, they were just playing war at that point. They see redneck kids with mud on their faces and blood in their eyes, and they choked. Like I said – we lost seven of our boys. We took out Hatchet's partner. Hatchet had his kids and his wife and a couple of the other little ones, sitting in a shack in the dead center of the conflict."

Booth had gone pale. Brennan felt her own stomach turn.

"They were armed?"

The general scratched his neck. He shook another cigarette out of the pack, but didn't light it.

"The girl – five years old, I believe. Cute little thing. Blonde hair, big blue eyes. She comes out. Sits down in front of the shack with this half-naked doll. One of our boys starts moving in."

"Fuck," Booth whispered. Brennan's mouth had gone dry. She had no desire to hear the rest of the story.

"Fuck," the general agreed. "It was booby trapped. He tripped a wire to the house – the whole thing went up."

He lit the cigarette and walked away. Booth and Brennan sat in silence for a long time. Finally, she wet her lips. Cleared her throat. Tried to find her voice.

"So, why did they simply change the details instead of just pretending none of it had ever happened? If the lie was this big to start, why not just make it disappear altogether?"

"'Cause Hatchet told the newspapers we killed his kids." She looked up in surprise. Sheriff Lincoln had rejoined them, moving more slowly than usual. He looked as though he'd aged in the moments since she'd seen him last. "The government put a lid on it fast, managed to pin the whole thing on a rogue sheriff and a bunch of know-nothing hicks."

"But you couldn't make the dead kids go away," Booth said.

He shook his head, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "No, we could not."

They were silent another few seconds. Brennan's mind was spinning as she tried to piece together details she knew, details she'd only thought she'd known, and the reality of the case before them.

"So, seven men died that day," she said suddenly. "There are two here. And the other five…?"

"Dead," Lincoln said. "Bar fight, hit and run, drowning. Two supposed suicides."

"He came after you guys," Booth said. "And your families."

"And our families," the Sheriff said. "Though it wasn't the families for a long time. I thought I got out clean – the killings stopped after a while. It was just Hart and me left. We lost track of him, thought maybe he'd died. Turns out Hatchet got tied up in a Mexican prison for a few years… It put a kink in his revenge plans."

"And when'd he get out?" Booth asked.

Lincoln drew something with his index finger on the picnic table. A number. "Five years ago. That's when the nightmare started."

"So, Hatchet was the one who did this – and you knew it?" Brennan asked. "He killed your men, unleashed havoc, kidnapped and killed your children, and you couldn't catch him?"

"Oh, they caught him all right," Booth said. "And took him out." He was watching Lincoln, gauging his reaction. "How long ago?"

For a moment, she thought the man would deny it. Instead, he shrugged.

"Hart got the kill shot off about two months back."

"So, who the hell's digging up his bodies and dumping them on my doorstep?" Booth demanded.

"That's the question we're hoping to give you the answer to today," General Hartwick said as he returned from his walk. He tossed his cigarette butt in the trash.

"Come on," he smiled, "Let's take a ride on up to the Ridge. Then we'll see if you can't scratch our backs, and we'll do our best to scratch yours."

For the first half-hour that they were back on the road, neither Booth nor Brennan said a word. Booth's hands were tight on the wheel, his knuckles standing out white against his skin. Brennan stared out the window, but saw nothing. Occasionally, she'd reach into the backseat and be reassured to feel Dosha's soft tongue on her hand. She leaned her head back.

"I'm tired," she said after a while.

Booth looked at her. He took her hand. "Lie back, get some sleep. I've got a feeling we won't be anywhere for a while."

She studied his hands. They were beautiful – long and slender, always so tender that it still amazed her the damage they could inflict. She traced the lines, reciting the tiny bones in her mind. She sighed.

"That's not what I meant," she finally said. "When I said I was tired, I mean."

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the palm. "I know, baby. I know it's not what you meant."

They drove on.

* * *

Black Ridge was nothing like what Brennan had expected. They followed the Sheriff and Hartwick up a steep road, then turned left onto a private drive with No Trespassing signs nailed to birch and elm trees all around them. Eventually, the trees thinned out. The road leveled off. They took another turn, and there on a hillside was a carefully tended, somewhat rocky lawn bordered by a long length of perfectly white, picket fence. A sign hung on a tree by the gate: Black Ridge Horses.

Booth looked at Brennan. She looked back at him. Neither of them said a word.

There was a speaker posted at the front gate. Hartwick got out of the car, went over and said something, and then walked slowly to Booth and Brennan.

"They'll be out in a minute. Don't go flashing any federal badges around here if it's all the same to you – these boys hate our guts, but they really hate the feds. They've learned to shut up and let us come 'round when we need to, but I'd rather not push 'em any further than we have to."

Booth nodded seriously. Brennan noticed how much more tense he'd become. He checked his gun several times, then leaned over and popped the glove box for Brennan.

"You should have your gun ready, but don't draw unless I tell you. These things – people like this, you sneeze and everybody's ready for a firefight. If you've gotta defend yourself don't hesitate, but look for my cue."

She nodded. A thin redheaded boy came down to the gate and opened it without acknowledging any of them. He held the gate open as Lincoln and Hartwick drove through, then Booth and Brennan. The boy had a hard mouth and a cigarette dangling from his fingertips. He caught Brennan's eye, leaned slightly to the left, and held her gaze as he spit on the ground. There was no trace of a smile.

They drove up a long, spiral driveway to an elegant Victorian home. A small, fit-looking thirty-something man in jeans and a t-shirt met Hartwick as he was getting out of the car. They shared words, the younger man visibly agitated, before the general took a step toward him and the man calmed down.

"Fine," she heard the man shout. "Bring 'em all in, I got nothing to hide. No rights on this fuckin' ridge, anyway."

Sheriff Lincoln came to their car. Booth rolled down his window. "You sure it's okay in there?" he asked doubtfully.

Lincoln laughed. "Don't get spooked by Jeb – he just gets worked up is all. We go way back." The Sheriff's eyes had gotten uncharacteristically hard, his mouth tense.

"Jeb…?" Booth prompted.

"Hatchet," Lincoln said. "The Colonel's only living son. He inherited this place after his daddy died."

He walked away without saying another word. Booth looked at Brennan. It appeared he was trying to decide something, but she wasn't certain what.

"Maybe you should stay – "

"No," she cut him off immediately. Before he could say another word, she was out of the car. She heard him follow behind, slamming the door as he left the car.

"All right then, I'm really glad we had that little talk, Bones," he called after her as she was walking away. He had to step up his pace to catch up with her, leaning in as they were still moving. "Y'know, you could really use a little help in the whole listening department."

"I'm not staying in the car."

"No, God forbid you actually stay safe for a change," he said. She stopped short. It took him a moment to realize she was no longer beside him. He walked back to her.

"Is this the way it's going to be from now on? Every time I'm out of sight, every time we're on a case…"

His eyes widened in disbelief. "Here? You want to do this here? Look, Bones, I'll fight with you 'til kingdom come about how to keep you safe and whether you should stay in the car – can we just not do it _now?_"

The redheaded boy had returned and was watching them with some amusement. Lincoln and Hartwick were farther ahead. Brennan's jaw tightened. All right, so perhaps she hadn't chosen the best place for the fight – nevertheless, her point was valid.

"You'll talk about it later?"

"Yeah, Bones, I swear." He lowered his voice. "Now… please?"

"Fine. But I'm not staying in the car."

"I think I got that. Thanks."

As she was walking away, she heard the redheaded boy approach Booth. They laughed at something before Jeb shouted, and the boy hurried off in the opposite direction. She paused until Booth caught up to her.

"What was that about?"

Booth showed her a cigarette the boy had given him. "Male bonding, Bones. Nothing inspires a little compassion like getting reamed by your girlfriend in front of the boys."

"Wait a minute – you set me up? You just picked that fight?"

There was a flash of mischief in his eyes before he covered it with what she sincerely hoped was only feigned annoyance. He leaned in slightly.

"Just run with it, okay, Bones? I'll explain later."

She shook her head. She considered requesting more of an explanation, but instead stalked off to rejoin the others.

They were in a horse paddock, with a dozen immaculately kept stalls with what appeared to be gleaming roan and chestnut thoroughbreds in each one. Booth had vanished somewhere along the line. Jeb was talking to Hartwick, seemingly growing more agitated by the minute. He quieted when Brennan approached.

"Jeb Hatchet," he introduced himself to Brennan, turning his back on Hartwick and Lincoln.

Brennan hesitated. She realized she wasn't certain whether or not she was supposed to be incognito.

"This is Dr. Temperance Brennan," Hartwick supplied. "She's a forensic anthropologist out of DC."

Jeb arched an eyebrow. "Smart and gorgeous. Dangerous combination. C'mon over, I'll introduce you to the family."

To her surprise, Jeb had an easy, engaging way about him. She fed carrots to the horses, listened silently to the hushed conversations between the three men, and waited for Booth to return. When he finally did, it was twenty minutes later.

"Did you just smoke a cigarette?"

The redheaded boy was trailing along behind. Booth looked at him significantly. He smiled, shook his head and walked away.

"Yep," Booth said dryly. She waited for him to say something more. Apparently, this was part of the role they were supposed to be playing – she only wished she knew a little bit more about the drama than the scant information she had.

Despite the obvious tension between Jeb and General Hartwick, they were still invited to dinner. Lincoln left early, saying he needed to get back to Maylene and the boys, but Hartwick stayed. As did Booth and Brennan. They ate with Jeb's wife and six ranch hands in a vast dining room with a Christmas tree in one corner and garlands draped in the windows. Dosha was allowed inside, where she settled contentedly between Brennan's feet, waiting for table scraps that Brennan was determined not to provide.

She found herself increasingly confused by the entire picture. The fact that this ranch was built on ground that had seen as much blood as Black Ridge had that fateful day seemed incomprehensible to her.

"How old are you?" she finally asked, just as a desert of homemade apple cobbler was coming around the room.

Jeb looked up in surprise. "Me?"

She nodded. She thought she saw Hartwick smile, but she couldn't tell.

"I'm twenty-six," he answered after a moment. Raised an eyebrow suggestively. "But I'm wise beyond my years."

"Pretty soon you're gonna be dead beyond your years, you keep that talk up," Jeb's wife said. She was a pretty, redheaded girl whom Brennan suspected was sister to the boy Booth had befriended.

Twenty-six meant Jeb hadn't been born until well after the drama that took place on Black Ridge. Clearly, he still harbored some resentment against the authorities, but she couldn't imagine him breaking bread so peaceably with the authorities if he'd known the truth of what happened that day. Or even the story given to the press.

They were sitting around the table drinking whisky when Hartwick finally got Jeb to tell the story. All but two of the ranch hands had gone to bed – now, only the redhead and a young African-American man remained. It was late, and the whisky was going to Brennan's head more quickly than she'd expected.

"So, you guys have been breeding horses here for how long now?" Booth opened.

Jeb looked at Hartwick with a smile. "Subtle. Fancy fuckin' Feds and their fancy fuckin' double-talk. You mean, 'how long have I been breeding horses instead of hosting militia groups and blowing shit up?'"

Booth scratched his head and kind of laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess that's what I mean."

Jeb leaned backward in his chair until the front legs came off the floor, and balanced there. "My father was a crazy son of a bitch, but he wasn't stupid. Charming as they come. After what happened on the ridge, he took off for a while. Met my mama, down in Dallas. She was an honest-to-god, blue-blooded, citified oil deb."

"So he married into money?" Brennan asked.

"Sure did," Jeb nodded. "He moved her out here. She wanted horses. Got her daddy to foot the bill for this place, bought her a few real nice fillies. They had me." Jeb's eyes got hard for a moment. He looked off into the distance. "Then some things happened 'round the ranch. Mama took ill and passed. Daddy went on the run, I guess you could say." He shrugged and took a long drink of whisky. "I took over. Been running it with the other boys from the ridge ever since."

"So, you knew when your father was killed?" Brennan asked.

Booth's eyes widened, but Jeb just laughed. "See, this one I like. You can ask me anything you want, darlin', 'long as you do it with that smoky sunrise voice, and I'll give you the keys to the kingdom. Yeah, I knew daddy died. I know when he died, I know who killed him, I know the look on that old bastard's face when the light left his eyes. I was standing in the next room when the general took the shot."

The room went silent until Hartwick laughed softly. "You're as crazy as your daddy – you know that, don't you?" he asked. There was a surprising amount of fondness in his tone when he said it.

"Yeah, I do," Jeb said. He stood resolutely. For a moment, it looked as though gravity might reclaim him, but he stood his ground. "But I'm not as mean. And that makes all the difference."

Jeb said goodnight shortly thereafter. He invited Booth and Brennan to stay in a guest room, but Booth declined, saying they had to be out early the next morning. Hartwick walked them to their car afterward, a cigarette in his hand, weaving slightly as the cool night air struck them.

"So, there you have it. The story of Black Ridge, start to finish."

Booth looked confused, which Brennan could understand, as she was completely baffled.

"Except for the part where someone is digging up the bodies and leaving them on public trails every time I turn around," Booth said.

Hartwick nodded toward the house. "It's the kid. He doesn't want any part of it, so he's been going around digging 'em up. Hatchet's got 'em everywhere. Jeb's got a hired dick, sniffs around the old man's stomping grounds, comes home with a fresh lead. Jeb goes, brings 'em home. Gives 'em back to you fellas, to give back to the families."

Booth looked doubtful. "So this is just about making things right?"

"I didn't say it wasn't fucked up," he said. "I just told you I'd give you the story. Didn't say I could tell you why."

Brennan furrowed her brow. She was still trying to catch up. "So, what about Sweets's theory that – " Booth stopped her with a look. She fell silent. Hartwick looked at her, then at Booth. For the barest instant, his eyes became hard, then the look fell away. It could have been a trick of her mind or of the light, but it still made her uneasy.

"I don't know what sweet theory you have, I'm just telling you the way things are. Which means you folks can get on home and start glossing things over with the press. You've got your killer, and he's dead. The story's over. Now let your boys put whatever spin they want on it, and let's call the whole goddamn thing done."

Booth nodded. "Well, there you go, then. I guess we'll call it a day. We're gonna hit the nearest motel for the night, and head back to DC in the morning. That'll be that."

Hartwick didn't get into his own vehicle until they were well down the drive, and neither Booth nor Brennan said a word until they were through the gate and back on the dilapidated country road leading back to civilization. After a long while, Booth turned to her. It was just past eleven o'clock. The moon was full, the night was cold, and it looked like it might snow.

"I don't know about you, Bones, but I'm pretty sure at least one of the guy's we met today's full of shit. Any guesses on which one?"

She thought for a long moment. "I liked Jeb."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, what's not to like, _darlin'._ C'mon, Bones, don't tell me I'm gonna have to kick this guy's ass, too. Smoky sunrise my ass."

She slipped closer to him, running her hand up his denim-clad leg. Leaned in until her lips were at his ear. The whisky was having an unmistakable effect – as was Booth's proximity after far too long apart.

"How do you like my smoky sunrise now?" she whispered. She took his earlobe between her teeth and nipped it lightly.

Booth nearly went off the road. Her hand crept higher, until she was cupping him through his jeans. He groaned.

"How the hell far did he say this motel was?"

"An hour," Brennan said. Booth stepped on the gas.

* * *

When they reached the Lucky Seven Motel, there were no non-smoking rooms. Booth didn't care. To be perfectly honest, at that point neither did Brennan. She walked Dosha one last time while Booth checked them in, then smiled when she walked through the door to find candles lit and Booth already in the shower. The motel room smelled of stale cigarette smoke. There were two double beds with ugly yellow comforters and a deep red carpet with matching drapes. The television was tuned to the sports.

Brennan checked her messages. The urgency had left her now – the revelations over the course of the day, the dark fates of the children who died on and because of Black Ridge, the deepening mystery surrounding whatever was happening now… She lay back on the bed next to Dosha, trailing her hand along the dog's thin stomach. She heard Booth turn the shower off, and felt an unexpected moment of apprehension. Nothing was certain, despite what Booth said. She felt like she knew this better than anyone.

They were not certain.

She heard him come into the room. He leaned in the bathroom doorframe wearing nothing but a towel, the light accentuating the hard lines of his body. She sat up. Her uncertainty seemed significantly less important.

"I don't think there's much hot water left – sorry, I thought you might…" he trailed off. His confidence wavered – she could see it in his eyes.

She stood. "I was just taking a break."

He nodded. She moved closer, until their bodies were finally touching. His chest was still damp, warm and solid. "Long day, huh?"

"It was. They all seem to be, lately."

He ran the back of his hand along her cheek, tracing the contours of her face. "Bones, if you're not… I mean, if you don't wanna be with me. Tonight or… you know, if you really are done…" He swallowed. "I said I know we'll make it, but if you're not ready, or something changed…"

She moved in before he could complete the sentence, before he could cast any shadow of doubt on the one thing she knew to be true. Their lips met. Clothing fell to the floor. Booth walked her backward, until she felt the wall at her back. His mouth was on her neck, teeth grazing her jawline, his body so hot against her own that she felt herself melting into him. They found their way to the bed. Turned off the lights, blew out the candles. Lay down together, Brennan so close to completion by now that every touch, every sound, every taste was delicious torture. When every stitch of clothing had been cast aside, Booth ran his teeth along her inner thigh before pressing a kiss to her center. Then another. His hand found hers, while his tongue pressed deeper; Brennan's eyes fell shut as she lost herself to the flood of sensation.

He looked immensely pleased with himself when he returned to her side.

"You're very good at that," she told him, once she'd managed some semblance of control again.

The moonlight came in through a slit in the drapes, so that she could see him blush, ever so slightly. She found it almost painfully endearing. "I kinda like doing it," he said, his eyes downcast, as though admitting some dirty secret. "I mean – I like what it does for you. And I like the way you taste."

She tilted her head. "Most men say they don't care for – " she hesitated. "I mean, speaking as someone who's read on the subject as well as from personal experience, many men – " she stopped, her cheeks burning.

Booth's eyes brightened, eyebrows raised. "Did you just blush?"

"What? No – I'm flushed from the activ – "

"No way, Bones – I just made you blush. We had a talk about sex, and I just made Dr. Temperance friggin' Brennan blush."

His voice had risen, until she put a hand over his mouth to still him. "Ssh – you'll wake the rest of the motel."

"Screw the rest of the motel, I wanna wake the president. So, what else makes you blush?"

He moved closer. His lips found her ear as his voice lowered. "Should I talk some more about how good you taste?"

His hand drifted up her thigh. She was reminded that, while she was quite sated at the moment, Booth clearly was not.

"My blushing was a physical reaction to my orgasm," she informed him imperiously. "I have no Puritanical baggage about sex." She shifted to her side, head supported in one hand, while she began to explore his body with the fingertips of the other.

"For example," she said, allowing her voice to drop and roughen slightly. "I have no problem saying that I enjoy going down on you just as much as you do me."

She squelched a smile at his raised eyebrow. Score one for Angela's careful tutelage.

"Oh yeah?" he asked. His voice broke slightly, betraying his attempt to appear unmoved. Brennan ran her hand higher up his thigh, weighing his sac for a moment before she began to stroke him, using just enough pressure to leave him wanting more.

"I love the way you taste," she told him. Eyes on his the entire time, watching as the control slowly fell from his gaze. "I love the way you feel in my mouth, just before you come – "

Booth lost that round. His mouth crashed onto hers, his body pressed close. "Holy shit, Bones, you're gonna kill me."

He fisted his hands in her hair. Shadows played along the walls, the unfamiliar surroundings merging with the primal familiarity that had become she and Booth in these moments. For just a moment, things slowed. And shifted.

He was poised above her with one hand just below her ribs – that's what changed things. It made her think of their first time, in the house in Portland; of the fact that the first time she'd felt him move inside her, it had happened while she was laughing. They walked this line that she had never even known existed – this line of work and play, laughter and fury, friendship and love. She had spent thirty-three long years compartmentalizing all of these parts of herself, only to learn from Booth that these things, perhaps, need not be divided.

Their eyes caught, sparked, and she remembered those words he'd said years ago. _Sure, he's handsome, and she's beautiful, and maybe that's all they see at first. But making love… making __**love.**__ That's when two people become one. _

How many times had he proven that in the months they'd been together? She felt an unexpected tear run down her cheek when he looked at her. He stopped moving.

"I do love you," she said before he could say a word, with more emotion than she'd meant to. Her voice broke. "You shouldn't doubt it. I know I'm not good at this, I know I'll probably ruin things… But I do love you."

His eyes grew soft. He ran his thumb down her cheek. "Bones, don't you get it yet?" he asked quietly. "Nobody's good at this. But we try, and we talk, and we fight," he smiled. "And we make up. You loving me? It's the best thing anybody's ever done for me, my whole life." He shifted and pressed himself inside her, moving slowly. She arched to meet him. They remained that way for a moment, joined but completely still, as he smoothed the hair away from her face and looked deep in her eyes. "A thousand lifetimes, Bones, and I'll never stop loving you."

* * *

They were back on the road by eight the next morning. This time, Brennan was undeniably sated. In fact, she was so sated she felt as though she'd turned to liquid over the course of the night. They had made love. They'd talked. They'd slept. She could tell that Booth was trying to let her in more; she, in turn, did the same. Things were good.

They were good, that is, until Booth got a call from Werner while they were on the road. He put it on speaker and continued driving.

"They found them," Werner announced without preamble. Booth scratched his head.

"Uh… Who would that be, exactly?" he asked.

"The last two," he said, as though Booth were being dense. "The final kid, the pregnant mother. Dead."

Booth sat up straighter. "When?"

"This morning. Off 95 just outside Baltimore – "

"Not a state park?"

"Not even Virginia. A culvert. Same missing persons posters, the rest is different. The woman's new – "

"What do you mean, new?" Brennan interrupted.

"Dr. Brennan, I presume," Werner said. He sounded tense. "New, new. Fresh kill. Two, three days. Maybe less. Your squad's working on it."

"Why wasn't I told – " she asked.

"Because we just got it, all right? I had to get somebody to pick up the bodies, but otherwise you're the first call I made."

"And the woman's related to Black Ridge? Who is she?"

"They probably haven't made a positive ID without me," Brennan told him.

"Janie Billings," Werner said. Booth's face drained of color. Brennan placed the name immediately.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. What about the kid?"

"Kid's old. Squints are saying could be as old as five to seven years in the ground."

"Hatchet was in prison five to seven years ago," Brennan said quietly. Her throat had gone dry.

"I'm on my way, sir," Booth said. He stepped on the gas and the car sped up incrementally. "Don Billings is Janie's next-of-kin – I'll contact him directly."

"Just get back here. I've got a feeling all hell's about to break loose."

They disconnected. Brennan's head was reeling. If Hatchet was dead, and fresh bodies were now appearing… What did that mean, exactly? They sat in silence for a long time, until the phone rang again. The tone was unexpected enough to make Brennan jump. Booth answered it, glancing at the caller ID as he did so.

"Parks – aren't you s'posed to be in school, bub? I told you, I'll be at the Zoo come hell or high water. I didn't forget."

There was a pause. "That's great, Dad. I just wanted to call and say hi. And tell you a funny story." His voice sounded strange. There was the sound of a vehicle in the background.

She watched as Booth's brow furrowed. "Are you in a car, Parks?"

"The bus," he said. "Remember, Junior Agent day. First we took a tour of the White House. There's a bunch of stuff we're doing." Someone was whispering in the background, but she heard Parker shush them.

"Anyway, Dad, we were at the White House and there was this painting and it was of Paladin. And since I know all about the guy, I was just checking out the painting and all." It felt as though Brennan's heart had stopped in her chest. She looked at Booth. "And the funny thing, Dad, is they didn't even spell his name right."

"Parks – " Booth's voice broke. Brennan stopped him with a hand on his arm, tightening her grip until her nails pierced his skin.

"How'd they spell it, Parker?" Her voice sounded strained.

"Just one 'l.' Lame, right, Dad? Everybody' knows it's two."

If Parker was trying to send a code – and she knew by his words, by his tone, by everything in her stomach and chest screaming that this nightmare had to end and end well, that he was – someone was presumably listening to him. If she or Booth responded in the wrong way, they could give the entire thing away.

"So, where are you going now, Parker?" she asked.

"We're taking a shortcut," Parker said. Someone yelled something indiscernible in the background. The phone went silent.

"Parker," Booth practically shouted.

"I'm here, Dad," the boy said after another interminable second of silence. "I just had to tell somebody something. Hey, Dad, you remember that time you picked me up at the park and I was kind of afraid of the merry-go-round?"

Booth nodded silently. He couldn't seem to find his voice. "He remembers, Parker," Brennan said.

She heard the boy sigh. "I'm not scared of merry-go-rounds anymore, Dad. But I don't like them. I don't really want to go on one again."

There was another shout, and what sounded like a scream. "I've gotta go," Parker said hurriedly. "I just wanted to tell you that whole Paladin thing. I'll see you soon, right, Dad?"

"Yeah, Parks," Booth said. His voice was rough, his hands shaking. He swallowed hard. "I love you, buddy. I'm gonna see you real soon."

The phone went dead.

The nightmare began.

_TBC_


	9. Chapter Eight

_I._

_It's raining the day Parker is born. Booth isn't there; Rebecca has been going back and forth for six months about whether or not she'll let him be in the delivery room when the time comes, but at the end of the day, all his fighting turns out to be for nothing. When Parker is born, Booth's on a case halfway across the country. _

_The pregnancy hasn't been a good time for Booth. It hasn't been good for Rebecca, either – he knows that. It's easy enough to see, in the way she stops looking him in the eye when she talks about their child; the way he'll find her crying by the window, face pressed to the glass. Like she's trying to escape something, or someone. More and more, he gets the feeling that someone is him. _

_He thinks it's hormones. _

_He thinks their son will come, she'll see them together, and everything will be okay. She'll accept his ring. They'll be a family. _

_But he isn't there when their son is born, and Rebecca sounds distant on the phone, like something's been decided and he's terrified what that something might be. He drives for five hours through heavy rain in Nebraska to catch a red-eye out of Omaha, straight from a crime scene. Gets stopped by a cop who lets him go with a warning and a 'good luck,' then nearly gets himself and three other people killed on the Beltway once he's back in DC, trying to get to the hospital. _

_Parker is a day old by the time he gets there – Booth has missed the first twenty-four hours. The first breath, the first cry, the first time those baby blue eyes looked out on the world. Already, he has regrets. _

_He feels a surge of hope when he sees the name tag on his son's crib, though. "Parker Booth." His last name, right alongside the first name he and Rebecca talked about and fought over for months. His son, named in memory of a boy Booth fought with; a good, decent boy who never got the chance to be a man. It's a name his son can carry with pride, something to live up to. It's a name that means something. _

_It isn't until Booth looks into Rebecca's eyes, while she's lying in bed looking exhausted with their son in her arms, that Booth gets it: he gets exactly what the name means. It isn't a promise of the two of them together, the life they're about to lead. She doesn't want him. She doesn't want __**them**__. The name is a consolation prize for the family he's never going to get. _

_But all that angst fades the first time he holds his son. Whatever he and Rebecca are or aren't, whatever their future holds (or doesn't), doesn't matter. Parker Booth. His son. He's missed the first twenty-four hours, but then and there he vows that he won't miss another second. Every soccer game, every dance, every date, every bloody nose or scraped knee, every heartbreak, every win, every defeat… He'll be there for all of it. One tiny life, one infant fist reaching for something only his father can provide, and Booth's life is never the same. _

"Hello, Rebecca."

Booth started. Parker had hung up – or the phone had disconnected. He was gone, and now Booth was driving too fast over a deserted stretch of highway in a mad race to get back to DC. Again. Because he hadn't been there for his kid. Again.

Bones was on the phone. It took him a second to realize what was happening, like he'd had too much to drink and everything had slowed to mud in his head.

"Bones, you can't – " he whispered loudly. She held up a finger, gave him a warning look. He shut up.

"Yes, it's Temperance," Bones said. He wondered if she and Rebecca talked often – he'd never really thought about it before. It didn't seem likely, somehow. "No, no," Bones hurried after Rebecca predictably enough started freaking out. "Nothing's wrong, Seeley's fine. We're just getting into town sooner than we expected, and he wanted to surprise Parker on his field trip. Do you have the itinerary for where they're going before the zoo?"

She said it so easily. Smooth as ice. When had she learned to lie?

"If you could just e-mail it to me, that would be ideal. Thank you."

She hung up and looked at Booth. His hands were too tight on the wheel and his palms were sweating; something in his stomach had turned. His back felt like someone had reached in and twisted the muscles into a series of hard, burning knots.

"What did she say?"

"She said she thought it would be a nice surprise for Parker if you came early. She's e-mailing me the itinerary. It should have all the relevant details for their plans."

"So she hasn't heard anything?"

Bones shook her head. He didn't say anything, because he didn't know what _to _say. He didn't know shit. Bones checked her e-mail on her phone and came up with the itinerary. While she was doing that, Booth called Werner. He got voicemail the first two times, then dialed Alyce, Werner's assistant.

"I need Werner."

"And 'good day' to you, too."

"Alyce." He couldn't summon the will for charm. He could barely summon the will for breath.

"I'll get him, Seeley."

Werner was on maybe ninety seconds later, sounding out of breath. "Yeah, Booth? I was in the stinkin' john – what the hell's the problem?"

"The Junior Agents field trip today – that group of Feds' kids, you know the one?"

"Of course I do – I'm the one who arranged the goddamn trip. I'm Master of Ceremonies at some hedgehog singalong shindig at the end of the day. What about it?"

Booth's mouth went dry. Bones reached over and put the phone on speaker without looking at him.

"It's Dr. Brennan here, Deputy Director Werner. We think something may have happened with the bus – the one the children are on."

There was a long pause. "What do you mean, something happened with the bus?"

"Just – do you know where the bus is? Have you seen the kids?" Booth asked.

Werner shouted something to Alyce. There was a rustling of papers in the background. "They started out at the White House this morning at 8:30. Took a tour, met with several members of the staff, and were invited to sit in on the daily press briefing. It looks like they left at eleven-hundred this morning."

Silence.

"And then what?" Booth asked. His voice was tight.

More silence, more paper shuffling. Whispers between Alyce and Werner. "Sir?" Booth pressed.

"Yeah, I'm looking – hang on. They… It looks they got the political crap out of the way in the morning."

"They were scheduled to have lunch at eleven-thirty," Bones interrupted. "That was at a restaurant called Chuck E. Cheese," she emphasized the 'E,' making it sound like Parker was having lunch at Le Cirque or something. "Have you gotten any indication that they didn't show up there? Do you have contact with any of the chaperones on the bus?"

"No – I mean, why would we?" Werner asked. "It's a field trip. I know my part in it, I assume you know yours. I only got the update about this morning because the kids were on the news – "

Bones was dialing someone.

"They were on the news?" Booth asked. He closed his eyes for a second, then remembered that he was driving. Opened them again. The day was gray, snow a threat on the horizon. They were an hour out of DC, and traffic was picking up.

"It's been on the books for weeks," Werner said. "The press corps ate it up. A lot of impressive kids there – and Parker was right up front. The clip's been everywhere."

If whoever was behind this had it planned – and suddenly, Booth knew with sickening certainty that they had – this would be perfect. How many times would the media replay that press conference on the news? Show those faces, rerun the soundbytes, while the story unfolded on a national stage. From the time the first body showed up just over a week ago, someone had been pulling the strings.

"I want Bill Lincoln on a plane to DC now, along with Jeb Hatchet and a General Hartwick. Lincoln will know how to reach them. And I want clearance to read every file you have on the Black Ridge incident in '78." He expected Werner to tell him to go to hell, but instead the Assistant Director asked if he needed anything else. Booth shook his head.

"Just keep this quiet – completely quiet, sir. No one can know. The last thing we need is twenty-five FBI desk jockeys with Napoleon complexes out there trying to get their kids back."

"Where are you now, Agent?" Werner asked.

Booth checked for exit signs and landmarks. He'd lost track of time and space, he realized. He gave his coordinates and an ETA.

"Three minutes and you'll have company," Werner said. "They'll bring you home."

Booth hung up. He realized he had no idea who Bones was calling, and he didn't know what to say to her. She kept talking to whoever was on the end of the line, but quietly took his hand as they kept driving. Sirens started in the distance. The cavalry was on its way.

_II. _

_Parker crawls later than other babies in his play group. He cries whenever Booth shows up to visit, and then again whenever Booth leaves. For the first year and a half, he won't sleep without Rebecca. His favorite toy is a stuffed dog that's missing one eye; Booth takes him to the park one day and forgets the dog, and Parker cries so hard the cops start eyeing them when Booth is trying to wrestle his wailing son back into the car. _

_All of this, Booth worries about. Rebecca says Parker crawls later than the other babies in his group because the other babies in the group are girls; girls just develop faster. The crying, the sleeping, the stuffed dog…Rebecca dismisses all of it as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if she's been raising kids her whole life, instead of for just a couple years. Booth still worries. He reads baby books; subscribes to parenting magazines. Obsesses over the ways he isn't there for Parker, and how his son is suffering for his absence. _

_But then, there are these days when he shows up at Rebecca's and Parker is all smiles, giggles and guffaws when he sees his old man. He wraps pudgy baby arms around Booth's neck and holds on tight, falls asleep in his arms… There are nights when Rebecca lets Booth stay, and he lies there with their son between them and Becca sleeping, and he all but begs God to stop time. He never sleeps, those nights. He feels as though he's been starving – like he's gone years without a scrap, and now he's given exactly that: one scrap. Just a taste of something he's been dying for his whole life, with no shot at something more. _

_When Rebecca tells him he can't spend the night with her and Parker anymore, just after Parker's second birthday, Booth doesn't fight her on it. Not for Parker's sake – not because he thinks his son might be confused, or because the goodbyes the next morning are too hard for the little boy to understand. He stops because going back to nothing after a night of scraps is too hard on him – too painful for the father, not the son. Booth adds this to the growing list of ways he falls short in taking care of his only child. He goes back to starving, full-time. _

What do you think he meant by 'shortcut'?" Bones asked, out of the blue.

The police escort was guiding them through traffic, but there was still a lot of stopping and starting this time of day on the Beltway. Booth thought about her question. His hands hurt, and he realized suddenly that it was because he'd been hanging onto the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were about to burst through the skin.

"I don't know," he said after a second or two. "I… They were going to Chuck E Cheese, right? The closest one to DC is in Largo – that's where I usually take Parks, anyway. So, they'd take the Beltway…" he stopped, giving it some thought. "There's no shortcut to get there." He shrugged, fighting frustration. "I don't know what the hell he's talking about."

"Is there another shortcut you two have taken – one that doesn't have anything to do with the restaurant? Perhaps they're on a road you've traveled together before?"

"Bones, do you have any idea how many friggin' roads I've been on with Parker? Between hockey and soccer and Boy Scouts and camping trips and school crap, I've been over half the goddamn eastern seaboard with that kid. We've taken a lot of fucking shortcuts." He was practically yelling by the time he got through, his hands clenched tighter than ever. He felt like ripping the steering wheel out of the car and tossing it through the windshield.

Bones looked at him. "I'm just trying to help."

"I know," he said. He calmed down. "I'm freaking out a little, Bones."

She nodded. She pried his right hand off the steering wheel, and laced her fingers with his. Rubbed her fingertips along the joints until the pain went away.

"It seems like an odd thing to say – what Parker said about the shortcut. That's why I asked."

"I know it does." He thought some more. "The only time we usually talk about shortcuts, it's because of Rebecca – she's always got these crazy backward ways to get somewhere, and she'll swear up and down it's the quickest route until, two hours later, you're totally lost and ready to strangle her."

He took his hand back, glancing at Bones to see if she'd mind. She gave him this kind of smile – worried, but he could tell her worry had nothing to do with the two of them. He started dialing the phone. His heart was picking up its pace, a faint twinge of hope kicking in. She was right, Parker wouldn't have just said that for nothing – he was a smart kid, he'd be using every tool he had to get Booth where he needed to be.

"Any word?" he asked, before Werner could get a word out.

"They never showed at the restaurant," Werner said.

Booth didn't stop to let that sink in – he'd been hoping for better, but this was what he'd been expecting, he realized. "Can you get agents to cover the length of 202, from DC to Largo? And any of the side roads along there. Maybe get a chopper out there, see if you can spot the bus from the air."

Werner hesitated. "Did you get a break?"

"Maybe – it's just a theory. Have you gotten in touch with Lincoln?"

"We sent somebody out to pick him up – he's flying in now. They've got the other guys you mentioned, as well."

"Has anyone spoken with Janie Billings's husband? Does he know what happened to his wife?"

Another second's hesitation. Booth felt the tension ratchet up another notch. "You can't find him?" he guessed.

"He never showed up for work last night," Werner said. "The state patrol's out looking for him."

Booth thought of the couple he'd met so briefly in Vermont – the wife barely holding it together, the husband doing his best to pick up the pieces. At least, that's what he'd seen. What had he missed? Had he been so fucked up over things with Bones that he'd been too distracted to see something that could have prevented this from unfolding the way it was?

"Get that chopper in the air over 202, would you?" Booth asked, his voice tight.

"It's done," Werner said. "I'll call you the second we see anything. How far out are you?"

Booth glanced at the clock. Dosha had woken in the backseat, and was sitting up with her nose pressed to the top of the window, where he'd cracked it so she'd have fresh air. Five hours on the road without a break, and the dog hadn't made a sound. He thought of Parker's reaction to having a dog – even a bald, mangy one – and his stomach twisted again.

"Twenty minutes," Booth said. He didn't hang up. They were silent for a second or two, before he slammed his hand against the steering wheel. Bones jumped.

"Why the hell wouldn't they call it in?" he asked. "The guys who took the bus – why would they just… take it? I mean, don't they _want _us to know what's going on? Don't they want us sweating over this?"

"They didn't tell anyone when those children were abducted over the past several years, either," Bones pointed out. He felt a chill go through him. "Sorry," she said weakly, when she saw the look on his face.

"This isn't one kid we're talking about, though," Werner said, coming back on after so long silent that Booth had almost forgotten he was on the line. "We're talking about a bus full of kids whose parents work for the FBI, taken from the middle of DC. That's not the kind of shit you get away with."

"What about the cell phone signals," Booth interrupted. The last thing he felt like hearing about was how impossible pulling something like this off should have been.

"We tried Parker's like you said – it's been turned off," Werner said.

"And the other kids on the bus? What about teachers, chaperones… I mean, this is 2010, for Christ's sake. You mean there's not one fucking GPS signal coming off that bus?"

Bones glanced his way, but said nothing. Werner was quiet for a second.

"We're doing the best we can, Seeley – it just happened. We don't even know for sure that anything's wrong – "

"Something's wrong, trust me. My kid doesn't just call out of the blue when he's supposed to be on a field trip, give me the code nobody knows but us, and then drop hints about where to find him because he's bored. You bet your ass something's wrong."

They were turning onto Pennsylvania Avenue when the police escort left them. It was one-thirty – he should be getting ready to take his kid and a bunch of eight-year-olds around the monkey house. This wasn't the way he was supposed to be spending his afternoon.

"He'll be okay," Bones told him.

He just stared at her, trying to figure out if she was just saying it to make him feel better. She didn't look like she doubted it, though – steely blue eyes and a hint of fire in the tilt of her chin.

He almost said, "You don't know that," but then remembered that that wasn't his line. Instead, he stayed quiet. He took her hand again, pressed her knuckles to his lips. Swallowed back the fear, fought to regain his center.

"Thanks, Bones."

_III._

_It takes a year of negotiations before Booth gets his first overnight with Parker. When Rebecca finally agrees, Booth blows an entire week's winnings on paint and wall hangings, toys and games, a brand new bed, and all of Parker's favorite foods. He works for a day and a night the weekend before Parks is scheduled to come over, until he's created a world he's sure any three-year-old boy would love._

_When he goes to pick Parker up that Saturday, Rebecca's nervous. Parker's cranky. Booth reassures Rebecca, hauls Parker up by his bootstraps, and makes his escape, loaded down with enough gear to get them through a Russian winter. _

_At his place that evening, Parker won't eat anything he cooks. He's afraid of the giant Cookie Monster Booth bought, and won't go in his new room. He throws the remote control truck Booth got him, and it breaks into half a dozen pieces. _

_And yet, Booth doesn't care. He picks up the messes, gently scolds Parker when it's appropriate, holds the little boy afterward. He's ready for this. When bedtime comes, they go into Booth's bedroom and lie in the king-sized bed that, more and more, just seems a painful reminder of how much unused space Booth has in his life. _

_They read three stories, pausing for talks and tickle fights. Parker stretches out when he sleeps. He tosses and turns, moans and mumbles. Booth watches every move he makes. When the little boy finally settles in with his arms around him, his curly hair tickling Booth's chin and his small head resting solidly on his chest, Booth gets the feeling he used to get in Rebecca's bed – that starving feeling, but this time it's not just a scrap of something good that he's getting. This is a little bit more, and the promise of something substantial down the road. This is his life. His son. _

_For the first time since Parker was born, Booth feels like he can do this. He can be a good father. It's not everyday, it's not everything he dreamed of, but it's something. _

_It's a start. _

The Hoover was no different when they got there. Booth had been expecting sirens and chaos – he'd forgotten that Werner was keeping a lid on the whole thing. Bones stayed down below to walk Dosha around the building, while Booth made a mad dash for the stairs and didn't stop moving until he crashed into someone on the third floor.

"Sorry – " Booth said quickly, moving to get out of the way.

The other agent grabbed him by the arm, and he realized it was Geoff with a G, the guy he'd been avoiding water-cooler gossip with just the other day.

"I saw you come in," the agent said. He was out of breath, his face red. Pupils wide. "What the hell's going on?"

Booth looked around, like salvation would come in the form of another agent or, maybe, a natural disaster of some kind.

"What do you mean?" He tried to rearrange his face into some semblance of calm, some façade to hide just how fast his head was reeling.

"Don't give me that shit, man," Geoff snapped. His thinning hair was wild on top, like he'd been running his hands through it. "My kid's on that bus, too – Sweets is up there with Werner and three of the chaperones who're _supposed _to be with them – "

"Nothing's going on, Agent," Booth said quickly. He recovered his cool, and looked the man in the eye. If he couldn't sell it, it could mean two dozen agents who'd never been trained for the field going rogue. It could mean Parker's life. "Go back to your desk. Do your job. Nothing's going on. You hear me?"

The man kept his eyes on Booth's, his suspicion clear. Anything else and Geoff with a G would have backed down, no questions asked. It was different when your kid was involved, though – Booth knew that.

"Why are they in Werner's office? I heard you got a police escort to get back here – something's up."

The echo of a door opening two floors down broke the stalemate between them. "Booth?"

Bones. He hollered down, keeping his eyes on the other agent.

"I'm up here, Bones. Shake a leg, Sweets is waiting for us."

The agent didn't move. "If something happens to my kid…"

"Nothing's gonna happen to your kid. She's fine." Booth suddenly remembered the man at a Bureau picnic, carrying a little redheaded girl with pigtails and glasses. His voice was steady, his eyes calm. "Go back to work, Agent. Your kid'll be home for dinner, same as every night."

A flicker of relief. He wanted to believe – that's what Booth had been banking on. Just a little reassurance, and he could go back to his day. He nodded slowly.

"All right. I'm – uh, I'm sorry. I guess with all the talk about this case, all those kids going missing, I got nervous."

Bones reached them then. She had Dosha with her. Booth gave her a quick glance, praying to God she wouldn't say anything about the case. He should've known better, though; people might say a lot of things about Bones, but nobody ever called her anything less than a pro.

"We should go, the Deputy Director will be waiting for us," she said. She ignored the other agent, which was good – it's exactly what she would do, under any circumstances.

"Dr. Brennan," the agent said, "I'm Geoff Humboldt. We met on a case a couple of years ago."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember," she said bluntly. Looked at Booth. "We should go."

Booth managed a smile that felt almost natural. He rolled his eyes. "Sorry, Humboldt – squints. You know the drill."

The agent echoed his smile, a comrade-in-arms kind of a look passing between them. "Good luck on your case."

Booth held his breath, waiting for something to shift. Nothing did. Humboldt started to pet Dosha but then noticed her missing fur and prominent ribs and took his hand back, like he'd just realized he was sharing the stairwell with a leper.

"I should go."

"Yes," Bones said coolly. The agent left. Booth looked at Bones when they were alone. She was a little flushed, her hair a mess. She still looked better than any woman he'd ever known.

"You couldn't have left the dog in the car?"

"She's been in there for six hours. She needed to stretch her legs."

He knew there was no point in arguing. They took the final flight of stairs to Werner's office in silence, Booth's mind refocusing once more on getting his kid back home.

As soon as they were through Werner's office door, Sweets was on his feet. Werner stared at the dog standing at Bones's side.

"What the hell's that?"

"It's a dog," Bones said, like Werner was the slowest kid on the short bus.

"What do we know?" Booth interrupted.

There were three other people in the room, besides Werner and Sweets – a woman and two men, all from the Bureau.

Werner stood. "Not much. At eleven-hundred hours, after their White House tour, the kids were scheduled for lunch. The facilitators were supposed to be relieved for one hour, and then meet the bus in Largo before they continued with the rest of the day."

"And you're the facilitators?" Booth asked, directing his question to the three agents who had risen as soon as he entered the room.

One of the men stepped forward. He was tall and blonde, with square shoulders and a square jaw. The Ken-Doll version of an FBI agent.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"And so who did you sign off with, before taking off for lunch?"

The man hesitated. Booth stepped closer. "I asked you a question, Agent. Who did you sign off with before you left twenty-five kids on their own?"

"There were three agents who were supposed to be taking over for lunch, sir," the woman interrupted. She was small and lean. Brunette. "Mendelsohn, Warrick, and Jeffers."

"Supposed to be?" Booth echoed. "Did they or didn't they?"

Werner shook his head. He looked reluctant to say anything more, but Booth was pretty sure if somebody didn't say something soon, the result wouldn't be good for anyone.

"Agent Booth," Sweets said. He stood up straight and didn't waver for a second. "It appears there was a miscommunication as to how the schedule was supposed to work. The lunch shift facilitators were under the impression they were to meet the bus at the restaurant; these agents were under the impression they were leaving direct from the White House tour."

"So you never saw anybody take over?" Booth interpreted, never taking his eyes from the three agents whose job it had been to keep watch over his son. "You never gave anybody instructions, said, 'Hey, that kid in the back is trouble, watch he doesn't knock somebody over the head during lunch?' You just got done at the White House, grabbed your shit, and took off."

Ken-Fed dropped his eyes. Booth took a step closer, so they were toe-to-toe. "Hey, look at me." His voice was tight. "There are twenty-five kids on that fucking bus, and one of them's mine. I'm not playing games here. How'd this thing play out?"

The third man cleared his throat. He was shorter than the other man and at least ten years older. His thinning hair was swept across his balding head, a little bit of a paunch under his FBI standard-issue black jacket.

"It was my fault, Special Agent Booth. I went to the bus to speak with the other agents, but the doors were already closed. The kids were already on. The bus driver opened the door and said they were running late."

"So, you just let them go," Booth said.

The agent stared at the ground. "Yes, sir," he said quietly. He shrugged. "I never even… Everything looked fine. The kids weren't upset. The bus driver wasn't upset."

"Because the kids didn't know and the fucking bus driver was in on it!" Booth exploded.

"Booth," Sweets said. Booth whirled on him, noting again that the kid didn't flinch. Somewhere along the lines, he'd grown a set – and come to care, Booth realized. Right now, he could tell that Sweets cared a whole hell of a lot.

"What did Parker say on the phone?"

"He said something about a shortcut," Booth said. "That's why we've got people checking out 202 and the outlying areas."

"So, if he was able to contact you and apparently speak freely – albeit in code – then in my opinion, the abductors – if that is indeed what this is – have not let onto the children that they were in danger. The fact that this agent saw the kids leaving with no signs of distress would seem to corroborate that theory."

Booth ran his hand through his hair, let out a slow breath. "Yeah, I thought of that. If he'd snuck off and was hiding when he called, he would've just come out and said, 'Hey, we're in trouble, here's where we are.'"

"Or, the kidnappers would have given you a clear indication that they had the children, and spelled out their terms," Sweets finished.

"Or just killed them outright," Booth said quietly. Everyone looked kind of dazed when he said the words out loud. He thought he might be sick, for a second.

"But that wasn't the scenario," Sweets said quickly. "Whatever is happening, the kids on the bus had no idea there was any trouble. Parker must have noticed something and contacted you."

"But the game's changed now," Booth said. "All the cell phones are off. It's almost two o'clock, which means they missed lunch. No adults they know are on board. They might not've known before, but I think by now everybody on that bus has a pretty good idea that something's gone bad."

Werner's phone rang, then. Everyone kind of jumped. Stared for a second, like they weren't sure how to handle it, before Werner answered. His jaw went tight.

"Where?" the Deputy Director asked. He grabbed a pen and jotted something down on a pad of legal paper on his desk.

"No," Werner said quickly, in answer to a question Booth wished desperately he could hear. "Don't move in without my word. We're bringing units in on the ground, but you don't tip off that you're there. You hear me? Stay back."

Werner hung up. Gave a shaky smile, but he'd gone pale.

"We've got the bus."

_IV._

"_Who's that?"_

_It's Christmas day. Parker is in his arms, holding on tight to a robot that he's already said three times is the 'best, best, best present' he ever got. Booth sets the little boy in his child's seat in the backseat of the truck. _

"_Her name's Bones, Parks – but you call her Dr. Brennan unless she says otherwise, okay?"_

"_Bones is a funny name." _

_Booth smiles at the boy. Ruffles his curly hair. He's just been released from a day and a half with a house full of squints, half that time hallucinating and the rest solving a long-dead case, not because he really gave a rat's ass about that long-dead case, but because he'd realized it was the only thing he had to give Bones. And suddenly, locked up in the Jeffersonian, he'd realized that it was important to him to give Bones something. _

"_Yeah, Parks, Bones is a funny name – it's not her real name. It's just what I call her." _

"_She's really pretty," he says seriously. "As pretty as Mommy – but don't tell Mommy, okay?" _

_Booth grins, just a little. "I won't say a word, bub." _

"_Does she like it when you call her Bones?" _

_He gets into the driver's seat, turns on the truck. Pauses for a second and thinks about the fact that he's just left his partner alone in Wong Foo's on Christmas day. _

"_Yeah, Parks. She doesn't know it yet, but she likes it a lot that I call her Bones." _

_They drive in quiet conversation for a while. Parker is watching the Christmas lights, pointing out the ones he likes best. They're both partial to the blue lights, but Parker still gets a lot more excited about anything remotely Santa related than just about anything else. All of a sudden, he gets serious. _

"_Why was she sad?" he asks. Out of nowhere. _

_Booth takes a second to follow the little boy's train of thought. "Who? You mean Bones?"_

_Parker nods, his blonde curls flying. Booth watches his son's face change in the rearview mirror. _

"_She wasn't sad, Parks." Another glance in the mirror tells him Parker hasn't bought the lie. _

"_Christmas is hard for some people, Parks. She's a little lonely, I think – she doesn't have any family." _

"_She doesn't have a little boy?" Parker asks. _

_Booth shakes his head. _

"_What about a Mom and Dad?" _

_Booth thinks about the story he overheard her telling Angela. The delicate way she wiped her tears, the flush of embarrassment when she realized he was there. _

"_No, Parks. Right now, she's pretty alone." _

_Parker thinks about this for a minute or two. He looks sad enough to cry, and Booth loves him as much in that moment as he ever has. His kid is the fastest one on the T-ball team, can count to twenty-five, and can say 'Hello' in six different languages. Still, it's his good heart that moves Booth every time. _

"_Maybe she could be your family, Dad. I could get her a present, and we could watch movies sometimes."_

_Booth thinks about this for just a second. He thinks about that first kiss over a year ago – the way she felt in his arms, the way her lips moved under his. He's thought about that kiss a lot. Then he thinks about the slap, the harsh words, the fact that most of the time, it seems like she'd just as soon kick his ass than spend an afternoon with him. He shakes his head. _

"_Maybe, Parks. Right now, though, I'm pretty happy just watching movies with you." _

_Parker gets a wider smile at that. For the moment, Bones is forgotten. _

"_I'm pretty happy, too, Dad." _

_They go back to looking at Christmas lights together, just him and his boy. _

They were just about through the Hoover front door and back on the street when Booth realized Bones was right on his heels. He stopped, and she crashed right into him.

"Ow! Why'd you stop?"

He turned and looked her dead in the eye. The second he did, she got the stubborn glint that had been turning him on and driving him stark raving mad since the day they met.

"I'm going."

"No, Bones, you're not. It could be dangerous – I don't have a clue what I'm walking into. And if something happens, you don't need – " he stopped, trying to stop all the shitty What-If images from knocking him sideways. "What about the dog? This isn't your area, Bones – "

"_You're _my area," she interrupted. "If something happens, I need to be there." Her eyes filled with tears; she rubbed them away viciously, jaw still set. "I'm going. Sweets is watching the dog. I'm coming with you."

He gave up.

Werner was on the line for most of the trip out, while Booth relayed directions and tried to get his head together.

The bus hadn't moved since it had first been spotted twenty minutes earlier. Tucked in the woods on the back nine of a golf course currently in the middle of off-season repairs, no one had seen it go through the front entrance. The grounds were big, though – plenty of ways to get in or out.

Thermal readings indicated there were live bodies in the bus – a lot of them.

Booth had been telling the truth when he told Bones he had no clue what he was walking into.

He'd just hung up the phone, five minutes out from their destination, when it rang again. Werner's number came up, one more time.

"Yeah."

"Lincoln's here," Werner said. "He's got the other guys you wanted."

"You fill him in on what's happening?"

Werner had. A second later, Lincoln was on the phone.

"The Billings woman is dead?" he asked.

It took a minute for Booth to get back to that – he'd almost forgotten. The puzzle had gotten so big, he couldn't begin to keep track of all the pieces. Especially now, when the most important piece of all seemed to be his kid.

"Yeah, she is," Booth confirmed. "Still no sign of her husband. You remember the father from that day on the Ridge?"

"He's dead," Lincoln said shortly. Booth had the golf course in sight now. Five other unmarked cop cars had pulled up. They'd all gone radio silent, in case the kidnappers were listening.

"Look, I can't do this now," Booth said. "You got anything I need to know before I go into this thing?" He waited, his adrenaline burning now. Everything was clearer, more focused.

Finally, Lincoln said a short, "No. Good luck." He meant it – Booth could tell by his tone. All the same, he couldn't shake the feeling there was something the other man wasn't saying.

"Thanks. Stay put – I need to talk to you when I get back."

Bones got out of the truck with him after he hung up. Booth put on his Kevlar, checked his weapon. Fifteen men were waiting for him, all suited up and ready for his instructions. The chopper was still standing by; Booth switched frequencies on the radio and called the pilot, trying to figure his next move.

"What do you see?"

"I'm too far to see much of anything," the man said. "We didn't want to give them a heads-up if we didn't have to."

Booth took a breath. It was cold and still, despite the people around him. He swallowed. "It doesn't matter," he said after a couple of seconds. "They know we're here."

He looked around, got his bearings. There was a glade of trees twenty yards from where he was standing. The bus was hidden about a mile into that glade, according to the pilot. Otherwise, it was all wide open spaces. He couldn't figure out what the hell they had planned – he just knew that, right now at least, the bad guys had the advantage.

"I'm gonna go around the perimeter," he told the others. "Try to figure out what's going on, get a visual on what's waiting. You guys follow my lead, but stay back. Nobody moves without my word. Am I clear?"

A dozen murmured "Yes, sir"s issued from the men. He headed out. He caught a glimpse of Bones standing off to the side, watching him intently. She looked scared, and he wished he had the time to be comforting. As soon as she saw that thought flash across his face, though, her own fear disappeared. She steeled herself – he could see her doing it.

"Go," she said.

He nodded.

And went.

_V. _

"_I don't know what it means, though," Parker says. _

_Booth tries to contain his frustration. They're eating lunch on a Saturday afternoon at the Diner. It's raining outside, which means they'll go to the Y this afternoon instead of the park. Parker has ketchup on his chin and his polo shirt, and a confused look in his brown eyes. _

"_You don't need to know what it means, bub – you just have to say it, okay? Paladin." _

"_Paladin," Parker repeats thoughtfully. "When do I say it again?"_

"_**You **__don't say it, Parker. If somebody ever comes to pick you up, and it's not me or your Mom, they've gotta say that word. That's our word." _

_Parker makes a face, staring speculatively at his mostly-empty plate. Booth can practically see the wheels turning. He thinks of the father and son he saw reunited just over twenty-four hours ago. He can't stop picturing the bloody rag around the little boy's hand. More and more, he feels like he'll never have a clue how people do the things they do to each other. _

"_Mommy says sometimes your job makes you more worried than other Dads." _

"_Not about this," Booth says quickly. He gets up from his chair, goes over and kneels in front of Parker. Looks him in the eye. "I get worried because I know things happen, okay, Parker? I'm going to keep you safe – I'll__** always **__keep you safe. But you've gotta work with me. Now, say it." _

"_Paladin." _

_Booth gets up, his bad knee creaking a little with the movement. He sits back down. "Good."_

_Parker looks worried. His lips are pinched into a thoughtful frown. He sighs, and the sound is way too heavy for a boy as young as his son. _

"_Can I have a French fry?" Booth asks. _

_Parks keeps frowning. "You have your own."_

_Booth sneaks his hand closer to the plate. "Just one?"_

_Parker rolls his eyes. He's fighting a smile now. "Da-ad," he sing-songs._

"_Par-ker," Booth sing-songs right back. _

"_Can I have pie for desert?"_

_Booth smiles. "What else is there, bub? Come on – finish up. Let's get out of here, go have some fun." _

_Parker's giggling by the time they finish off their pie. They don't mention Paladin again, and Booth pushes the image of the little boy he almost wasn't in time to save, far to the back of his head. The rest of the weekend, he feels like someone's following them – even though he knows there's no one. He panics a little more than normal when Parker is out of sight; stands in the doorway of his son's room and watches his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, while he's sleeping. They don't talk about Paladin again, but he knows Parker won't forget. And he sure as hell knows he won't. _

The bus was parked in plain sight. It was white, with DC Tours & Rentals stenciled across the side. One door controlled by the driver up front, double doors in the back. Tinted windows, so Booth couldn't get a clear read on what was happening inside. He approached it from the south side, keeping low to the ground and using the evergreens, elms, and birches on every side as cover. There were voices coming from inside – chaos, it sounded like. He couldn't hear any adults, but every so often there'd be the sound of a child crying. He strained to make out Parker's voice, but couldn't.

There was a thin layer of snow on the ground. Booth spotted two sets of adult-sized footprints leading from the bus to the woods. He searched for a sign of them, waiting in the trees to pick him off, but he didn't see a soul.

Keeping to the woods, he traveled farther around the perimeter until he could see the other side of the bus. They'd parked by of the eighteenth hole, the driver's side of the vehicle facing the trees while the exit remained exposed to the world.

Once he had a clear visual on the situation, his heart stopped.

Snow had started, light flakes that evaporated on contact with his skin. There was movement inside the vehicle, voices getting louder and more desperate.

Outside the bus, a wire – so thin as to be virtually undetectable – ran from one end of the vehicle to the other. It was stretched across the doors and over the windows. It snaked down from the body, over about three yards of golf course covered in thin snow, and stopped.

A redheaded girl with glasses sat on the ground where the wire terminated, a stuffed bear in her lap. Booth thought of the scene Hartwick had painted yesterday: the little girl playing with her doll in front of the cabin on Black Ridge over thirty years ago. He realized he was shaking, and struggled to recover his equilibrium, but his brain wasn't working.

Nothing was working.

Because beside the redheaded girl, his lip bleeding but otherwise apparently unharmed, sat Parker. He held the girl's hand. They both looked strangely calm. He was talking to her earnestly, no trace of fear on his face. Booth watched his son smile and keep talking, oblivious to his father's presence.

In the girl's lap, taped to the bear's body, Booth could see more wires. A timer. He checked it through the scope in his rifle, honing in until he could read the numbers. 1:03:42, with the seconds winding down fast. Just over an hour.

And in the meantime, the entire thing – girl, bear, bus… and Parker – was rigged to go up the second anyone made a move.

_VI._

"_Laskey says you must know a hundred ways to kill a guy," Parker says. _

_They're at the park, eating ice cream. It's a gorgeous summer day that, just like that, goes dark. _

_Booth tries to stay cool. "Why'd Laskey say a thing like that?"_

_Parker shrugs, and Booth knows the boy can tell he's bothered. _

"_We were just talking. His Dad says you were in the Army and you're the best marker they ever had." _

"_Marksman," Booth corrects automatically. He feels no pride over the words – instead, he's trying to figure out who the hell Laskey's father is so he can have a conversation about what he should and shouldn't be talking to his kid about. _

"_So, you killed guys, Dad?" Parker asks. His voice has gotten small. Booth has never, ever wanted to have this conversation. In fact, he's dreaded it from the time his son came into the world. _

_Booth looks him in the eye. He's talked to shrinks about this, read books about it – about the importance of being honest, but not __**too **__honest. _

"_I protect people," he says. It is the truth, in some ways. In others, it feels like the biggest lie of them all. _

"_From bad guys," Parker says. His ice cream has started dripping – Booth takes it and, with one steady lick, gets all the drips and puts the cone back in Parker's hand. _

"_Yeah, Parks," he says. "That's my job – to keep people safe. You, and your Mom, and anybody else who needs to be protected." _

"_And to keep us protected, sometimes you kill people?"_

_Booth sighs. Keeps his eyes on Parker, and gently nods his head. "Yeah, Parker. Sometimes. It's not… It's nothing you need to worry about, bub. It's just my job."_

_Parker stops eating. He gets quiet. After a while, he looks at Booth and his eyes are filled with tears. _

"_You don't get to go to heaven if you kill people," he whispers. A tear falls down his cheek. Too late, Booth realizes he's made a mistake – this was one of those times when a lie would have been right, would have been a thousand times better than this. _

_He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to explain to a six-year-old that he knows killers don't get to heaven, but he's weighed the cost of his soul against the need to keep his country free, his family safe, and he's willing to take the hit for that. _

_Instead, he shakes his head and forces a smile. _

"_Hey, bub, relax. I'm just kidding around, okay? Sharkey and his Dad don't know squat. I just keep people safe, okay? The bad guys go to jail, we go to heaven. Okay?"_

_Parker thinks it over. He looks pissed for a second or two, then relief takes over. He rolls his eyes and takes a big bite of ice cream. Sighs in exaggerated relief. _

"_Don't play that trick again, okay, Dad? You really scared me." _

_They go back to ice cream and playing in the park. That Sunday, Booth scans the Help Wanted section of the paper before he brings Parker back home. He tries to imagine a life where he doesn't have to hide things like life and death from his kid. There's nothing in the paper for a highly trained sniper with a bad back and perfect eyesight, though, so he puts it away. Gets his suit ready for work the next morning, and says his prayers before lying awake in bed that night, imagining a different life. _

There was no way to tell if radio interference might set everything off. It took Booth a solid two minutes that felt like years, to convince himself that he couldn't just go in on the scene, pick his kid up, and haul ass out of there. He was shaking when he turned his back on Parker, and ran back to the others with his heart going fast and his head even faster. Bones was waiting with the others – which should have surprised him, or at least pissed him off, but he just nodded to her. They were gathered in a grove of birch trees with the snow falling lightly. She wore Kevlar. He couldn't tell if she was armed.

"I don't think they're on the bus anymore – they took off. Or they're in the woods, watching this go down." He looked at Bones. "I need you to go back as fast as you can. Take Hutchins with you," he nodded to a compact blonde man with a pug nose. Didn't even allow himself to think that he was once again trusting somebody else with Bones's life, when that almost never worked out that well.

"Tell them we need the bomb squad. Whatever they've got rigged doesn't look stable, so we're staying radio silent. I don't want to risk a signal touching this whole thing off. You need to go to the pilot and tell him what I said – he needs to shut down his communications as well."

She nodded. She didn't wait for any further instructions, just took off running with Hutchins on her tail.

When she was gone, he looked at the men waiting for his command. Thought of Parker holding the little girl's hand, and shook his head fast. He had to be clear on this.

"I want you five," he singled out five guys in black flak jackets at the end of the line, "to move out, make sure we don't have snipers waiting for us in the trees. Fan out. Cover every opening. Remember – no radios. You've got your orders. You find anyone, you either take them out or you incapacitate them, but don't move from your post. Somebody'll come for you when things are clear."

They moved. The rest of the guys stood around waiting for him to make a decision. Wait for the bomb squad, or go back and get his kid? A second later, though, the decision was made for him: back toward the bus, he heard someone yelling. Not a scream, not terror, but the pure fury of Parker on his very worst day.

Booth took off at a run.

* * *

A husky kid Booth didn't recognize was halfway out the bus window when he got back, Parker sitting exactly where he had been, screaming his bloody head off at the idiot.

"GET BACK IN!" he yelled. Booth didn't even know his kid had lungs like that. "Jake, you've gotta stay inside."

The fat kid was crying. "You got out – if you can get out, we can all get out."

"I got out 'cause I stayed away from the wires," Parker yelled back. "I got out 'cause nobody was moving, 'cause you guys made sure the bus didn't rock. You're moving EVERYTHING."

The redheaded girl had stopped crying – now she just looked pissed.

"Parker's right – it'll blow up if you keep going. Get back inside!"

Jake was stuck, paralyzed, trying to figure out what he should do. Booth took a breath and left the cover of the trees.

"Hey, Jake," he said easily. "Settle down, okay, buddy? Just stay where you are for a second."

"DAD!" Parker said. Booth had his eyes on his kid the whole time – he put up a hand, fast, to make sure the boy didn't move, but Parker stayed planted exactly where he was.

"You've gotta stay still, Parks," he said quietly.

Parker nodded. His eyes filled with tears, but he pulled himself together fast. "I know, Dad. It's a bomb, like the one Hodgins and Zack made that time. The men said it'd go off if any of us moved."

Now that he was closer, Booth had a better read on the situation. The bus was wired, the little girl was wired… Parker, it seemed, was the only thing on the scene that wasn't wrapped in explosives.

Jake started to move again. Inside the bus, Booth could hear kids starting to panic. He got closer, slow and easy, and called into the window Jake was crammed into.

"Hey – guys, you've gotta settle down. I know you're scared. We've got people coming, though. Everything's gonna be all right." He nodded to Jake, who took a swipe at his tears. "Listen, buddy, you think you can climb back in there? I know it's hot and crowded and crappy in there, but you've gotta trust me. The alternative's worse."

The kid nodded. "They're coming to get us?"

"Any second now," Booth promised.

Slowly, the kid unjammed himself and shimmied back inside. Things quieted down. Booth turned his attention back to Parker and the little girl.

"You got out?" he asked Parker.

Parker nodded. "I studied the wires. We did an experiment once – Max and Hodgins and me, and they showed me how bombs work. I knew I could get out if I didn't rock the bus, and I didn't hit any wires – like in Operation, right?"

Booth's mouth went dry. A list of all the ways that logic could have gotten his kid killed went flying through his head, but he pushed them all away. Parker was safe.

"And who's your friend here?" he asked, nodding to the girl.

"Dani," he said promptly. Booth noticed they were still holding hands. "Her Dad works with you."

Booth nodded. "Yeah, I know him. Geoff Humboldt, right?"

"Is he here?" Dani asked. There was a thin cover of snow on her red hair. She was shivering.

"No, sweetheart, not yet," Booth said. "But we've got some guys coming. They're gonna get you out of here."

Now that he was closer, he studied the wires wrapped around her thin shoulders, the device strapped to the bear she held. 52:01:25. His chest tightened.

"Parker, what's say we get you out of here? Bones is back at the truck – "

Parker shook his head. No drama, no anger, no tears. Just a simple shake of the head. "I'm not leaving 'til she does, Dad. I promised."

Up close, he could see that the girl was a little younger than Parker, and a lot smaller, but he could tell by the tilt of her chin and the spark in her green eyes that she was a tough little thing. Her lip trembled, but she held it together.

"It's okay, Parker. You should go."

Parker didn't budge, getting the stubborn look Rebecca always got when she was settling in for a good, long fight.

"I told you I'd stay," he told the girl evenly. "I said my dad would come, and we'd walk out of here together. That's what I said."

"Parker," Booth warned. Parker set his jaw, looked down at his hands. Not a challenge, no disrespect.

But he wasn't moving.

Five minutes passed before they heard sirens. Parker met Booth's eye. He noticed the puffy lip again, realized he had no clue what had happened in that bus.

"Those are the bomb guys, Dad?" Parker asked. He seemed older, somehow. Hand still in Dani's, blonde hair dusted with snow. He was shivering. Booth took off his coat and started to give it to his son, but Parker shook his head.

"I'm okay. You should give it to Dani."

Booth looked at the little girl. Her lips were blue, her face pale. He hesitated. Dani saw him do it; she gave him a kind smile that was far, far beyond her years. He tried not to look at the clock running down in her lap, but failed. 45:08:17.

"It's okay. I'm not cold anymore, anyway." She looked at Parker. "Your Dad can't give me his coat, 'cause of the wires all around me. He can't touch me. You can take the coat."

For the first time, Parker looked shaken. He blinked back tears, and Booth saw his grip tighten around Dani's hand.

"I'm okay, Dad. You can keep it."

Bones showed up then, with Werner and five guys in full bomb gear. Parker brightened when she came over.

"Bones! See," he looked at Dani with that I-told-you-so smile he'd perfected over the years. "This is the lady I was telling you about. My dad's girlfriend. Bones, this is Dani – she's gonna be a scientist."

Dani looked skeptical. Booth watched as the bomb squad started checking out the scene, figuring out their next move.

"You're Dr. Temperance Brennan?" the little girl asked.

Bones nodded. She was staring at Parker's bloody lip. "And Parker's Dad is your boyfriend."

She hesitated a long moment, eyes still on Parker. "We… He's my partner."

"And her boyfriend," Parker insisted.

"Well… yes," Bones agreed, after a second or two.

"Gee, thanks for the endorsement there, Bones," Booth murmured. One of the bomb guys signaled to him, and he nodded.

He crouched down beside Parker again. "Listen, bub," he said, "I'm just gonna go talk to those guys for a second. But Bones'll stay with you 'til I come back."

Bones knelt then, and tipped Parker's chin up to look at her. She was shy about it, careful – like she was overstepping some boundary, though Booth didn't know whether it was hers or Parker's. Hers, he suspected.

"You're hurt," she said.

Parker got quiet. "I'm okay."

"They hit him," Dani said. "They took me, and Parker attacked them. He kicked one of the guys, and bit the other one 'til he bled."

Booth felt a rush of emotion as he pictured the scene. Werner shouted for him, and he nodded. He left them there: his partner and his kid, sitting in the snow with a little redheaded girl with a bomb wired to her teddy bear.

He'd had better moments.

_VII. _

"_Why don't you ever kiss Bones?"_

_The question comes out of the blue, and so close on the heels of the Caroline-inspired kiss that had just about knocked his socks off, that Booth is struck dumb for a few seconds._

"_Me and Bones? Because we're partners, Parks."_

"_And friends," Parker points out. They're on the way to the prison to spread a little Christmas cheer. The truck smells like pine needles, and 'Let it Snow' is playing on the radio. It's been hours, but Booth could swear he can still taste Bones's lip gloss. _

"_I think you like her," Parker says. _

"_Since when are you an expert on liking someone?" Booth asks, which makes Parker roll his eyes. _

"_Dad, come on. You guys are __**always **__together. You were gonna go to Africa for Christmas with her, and that's all the way across the world. Mom says you like her – so does Angela. And Dr. Hodgins." _

"_What?" He feels a blush climbing his cheeks. "They do not."_

"_Uh huh – do too. You should just kiss her. And buy her some candy." _

"_I'm not kissing Bones, and I'm not buying her any candy. What's got you so hot on this, anyway?"_

_He gets serious. "You're alone too much," he says, finally. "I don't even remember the last time you had a girlfriend. When we first started out, it was Bones who didn't have a family, but now it's you. If I didn't come back, you would have been all alone tonight." _

_They pull into the prison yard. Parker starts to get out, but Booth stops him with a hand on his arm. _

"_Just a second, Parks." The boy stops. He turns in his seat so he can look Booth in the eye. _

"_You don't need to worry about me – got it? That's my job. If you hadn't come back today, I would've been okay. I might have been sad that I wasn't with you, but I would've been okay." _

"_But you don't need to be sad – you could be with Bones."_

"_Look, you've gotta stop that, bub." Booth's voice rises unintentionally. "She doesn't want me, okay? I'm not the guy for her." _

_Parker makes a face, the fun gone from his eyes. Booth forces himself out of this unexpected funk. He focuses instead on the falling snow and the carols and the smell of fresh pine. _

"_Now, come on – just because Bones and me will never be anything more doesn't mean we're not still best friends, right? Let's go make her Christmas." _

_They get out and set up the tree. Before long, Parker's giggling and they're horsing around in the snow. He can see lights on in the trailer, though the shades are drawn. Every so often, he thinks he gets a glimpse of her silhouette – every time he does, it makes him think of what it felt like to have her fists curled in his lapel this afternoon, her body pressed to his. _

_When she answers the phone, he gets a little flutter that strikes him as a bad sign. And when she comes to the window, sad eyes brightening and that smile touching her pretty lips, the little flutter gets a whole lot bigger. He keeps a hand on Parker's shoulder and his kid – who's supposed to be in Vermont but definitely is not – is grinning, and the snow is falling, and Christmas miracles don't seem all that unlikely, all of a sudden. _

"What've you got?" Booth asked as he jogged up to the spot where Werner and the others had gathered, toward the treeline at the back of the bus.

"Woods are clear," Werner said. "It's a small area, well-maintained – not a lot of thick brush for anyone to hide in. They must've taken off."

"It doesn't make any sense," Booth said. "Why go to all this trouble just to fuck it up and run in the eleventh hour?"

"I don't really care why, I just care that they did," the man who appeared to be leading the bomb squad said. He was in full gear, helmet under his arm. Tall and dark, lean and intense.

"Joe Cragen," the man said. He and Booth shook hands. "First thing we'll do is get these other kids out – that'll be tricky, but we can do it. How much time's left on the device?"

Booth swallowed. "Thirty-eight minutes when I left them."

Cragen flinched. "Let's get moving. There's some plastic explosives under the bus, but they look pretty stable, all things considered. This was a rush job – whatever they had planned, they either didn't think it through, or something bumped their timeline up in a hurry."

He gave the signal to the other guys, and they gently began maneuvering wires and stabilizing the bus.

"I need everybody but my guys to stand clear." Cragen nodded toward Bones, Parker, and Dani. "Werner says that's your boy?"

Booth nodded.

"He's clear, right?" Cragen asked. "So, get him out of here. We've got paramedics waiting on the other side of the fairway. Have them check him out. Then, if you can, try to get back here and help us get the rest of the kids to safety."

Booth was quiet for a second. "What about the girl?" he nodded toward Dani.

Cragen didn't say anything. Scratched his neck. "We worry about her when the others are clear. But…" he hesitated. "Just get your boy out of here, okay? As far as you can get him."

* * *

"I'm not going." Parker shook his head stubbornly. Bones had finally persuaded him to let her put a blanket around his shoulders. The situation was starting to get to Dani, Booth could tell – the physical strain of sitting perfectly still, the emotional strain of knowing what would happen if she didn't.

"Parker." Booth's voice had an edge to it, but his kid just looked away. This wasn't something he'd never done before – usually, whatever Booth or Rebecca said, Parker did. He could be stubborn, but he'd never outright disobeyed them before.

"You're being dumb," Dani said. Her voice, her whole… being, really, seemed to be getting smaller as the afternoon wore on. The timer, on the other hand, just seemed to be getting bigger. 22:12:04.

"Am not," Parker said. "You think you're so smart, but I know a lot more than you think. Besides, I'm older than you."

She rolled her eyes. "So what? You might be older, but I'll always be smarter. You should go."

"Parks, she's right – " Parker looked horrified. Booth sighed. "Not about the smarter thing – about you going."

Still, Parker didn't move. Booth noticed that, for all Dani's talk, she didn't let go of his son's hand. He watched as the squad cleared away wires and used bodies and equipment to keep the bus from moving while they slowly lowered each child to the ground.

Across the fairway, Booth could see flashing lights through the snow. A crowd was gathering. No doubt that by now, word had gotten out at least at the Bureau. Parents would be waiting for their kids to come back to them.

It took ten minutes for them to get everyone off the bus. Parker watched his friends go – Booth saw him following them with his eyes, and wondered what the hell he was thinking. When the last one – Jake, the husky kid who'd nearly gotten them all blown to kingdom come – was led over the green and back to safety, Booth turned to Parker. Cragen was standing by.

He crouched down and looked his son in the eye.

"We need to let them do their job now, Parker." The glowing red numbers on Dani's bear changed again: 10:15:42.

"They can do it while I'm here. I won't get in the way," he said.

Dani looked completely terrified for the first time.

Booth caught Bones's eye, gesturing across the green. "You mind waiting for us at the fairway?" he asked, as casual as he could.

She hesitated before nodding. "When you're done here," she said to Dani, like she was out getting her hair done or something, "please visit me at the Jeffersonian. I'll arrange a tour."

The little girl smiled at the same time that tears began to fall – silent, no big sobs, still trying to be strong. She was shaking again.

"Okay. Thank you."

Bones leaned over and kissed the top of Parker's head, then straightened and kissed Booth full on the mouth. She held onto his hand so tight he thought she'd break it, and then finally let go and walked away.

When she was clear, Cragen called, "Agent Booth?"

8:20:31 on the clock.

Booth nodded. It was hard to get a full breath.

"Okay, Parker, time to go."

Parker shook his head. Booth knelt and gently pried his son's fingers from Dani's.

"We're running out of time, Parker. You need to let them do this." His voice rose. Parker clutched for Dani's hand, but Booth pulled his body away until the little girl was no longer in reach. She made no move to stop them, but she was crying harder now.

"I'm not leaving her!" Parker yelled, losing his cool for the first time since Booth showed up on the scene. Booth dragged him away, his arms wrapped tight around his son's body. The little boy fought him every step of the way, kicking and squirming the way he used to when he'd have tantrums at two. This was more than a tantrum, though, Booth knew. And he was a hell of a lot stronger than he'd been at two.

"You can't do this! Dad, she'll die!"

When they were far enough away, Booth dropped to his knees and held on while Parker continued to fight him. They were at the treeline. He was facing the scene, watching it play out, while Parker's face was pressed to his chest. He felt the slow give in his son's body, the shift from fight to acceptance to grief, as Parker stopped fighting and began to cry.

He watched as Cragen approached Dani, crouching as he examined the device. Watched as the man turned to the rest of the squad and slowly shook his head. Parker was sobbing now, holding tight to Booth's body. Booth kept his hand at the back of his son's head, shielding him from the scene as it unfolded.

Cragen stayed where he was, talking to the little girl, working with the wires, as the rest of the squad withdrew. Across the fairway, red and blue lights flashed in a constant strobe. The snow was still coming down, thicker now.

Parker looked up at exactly the moment Cragen was able to detach the bomb from the bear. Booth saw his son's eyes lock with Dani's, felt his body go rigid in his arms, and then Booth felt the air change the way he used to in battle. He gripped the back of Parker's head and forced the boy's face back to his chest, shielding his son an instant before the bomb went off.

_VIII._

"_Two l's, Parker. Dammit, listen to me." _

_Parker stares at him like he's grown two heads. They're in Rebecca's living room. It's August, hotter than hell in Virginia. Booth has a bandage on his forehead, scrapes and bruises. It's Saturday night – the day Bones sent him home, without her. _

_He's having a hard time breathing. _

"_Dad, what's wrong?"_

"_Nothing, Parker." But he knows his voice doesn't sound like nothing's wrong. Not by a long shot. "Just – listen to me, okay? If anything ever happens – " _

"_Like what? Dad, is Bones okay?" _

_He nods, but he's horrified to find that his eyes are tearing up. He can't get a full breath. _

"_Seeley." It's Rebecca, standing in the doorway. And just like that, she's taken in everything that's going on. "Hey, Parker, why don't you go give Brent a hand out back. He's trying to get the grill going." _

_Parker doesn't protest. He looks at Booth like's he's afraid of him – or maybe for him – and nods. _

"_I'll be out back, okay, Dad?"_

_Booth nods. He watches his son go. He shouldn't have come – he was supposed to wait until tomorrow, once he'd had some sleep. But the idea of going to the apartment alone… When Parker disappears around the corner, he feels a completely misplaced terror. He wonders if he's losing it. _

_He's sitting on the edge of an overstuffed recliner that he knows Brent picked out. Rebecca grabs an ottoman, sits down, pulls it close. Takes his hands. _

"_Hey, Seeley," she says softly. He looks at her and remembers being in love with her. For a second, he wonders what it would be like to kiss her, now. "Lance Sweets called. He told me what happened." _

_Booth nods. He feels like he should be pissed that Sweets made that call, invaded his private life that way, but right now he's just grateful not to have to tell the story again. _

"_Have you slept?" Rebecca asks. _

_He thinks of the night before – making love to Bones until she finally slept. Staying awake, cataloguing her cuts and bruises, calculating how many hours she was missing and how long it might take her to get over that. _

"_She almost died," he finally says. _

_Rebecca bites her lips. She leans in, kisses his forehead, and then wraps her arms around him and holds him close. He resists for just a second, but then he lets go and holds onto her, so hard he imagines he's cutting off her air. Becca's always been stronger than that, though. She doesn't complain. He cries into her shoulder, silently, harder than he thinks he's cried in his entire adult life. It should be something he's ashamed of, but instead it feels like such a relief that he can't summon anything but gratitude. _

_When he's got control again, he pulls away. Wipes his tears, avoiding Rebecca's gaze until she grabs his chin and forces his eyes to hers. _

"_Hey," she says. "It's okay. Don't freak out on me, Seel. That? What just happened, there? It's okay for you to lose it. We've known each other a long time, Seeley. God knows I've cried on your shoulder more than once." _

_He takes a long, deep breath, and lets it out slow. _

"_I really thought I lost her," he says. But this time, his voice is steady. He can take a full breath. _

_Rebecca takes his hands. "But you didn't. She's okay." _

_He thinks about this. Nods slowly. "Yeah, I know. I just…" _

_He goes quiet. Rebecca's studying him, seeing right through him in that way she always used to. _

"_Seeley – don't get mad, okay? But… Do you ever think of doing something else? I mean – you've been at this a long time. Maybe…" She shrugs. "Do you ever think about getting out?"_

_He meets her gaze. Parker and Brent are laughing out back – he can hear the sound through the open windows, coming in on a soft summer breeze that ruffles the curtains. He imagines for the first time, actually having a shot at that life himself: him and Bones barbecuing on the deck. Parker and a blue-eyed baby sister horsing around in the yard. _

_He scratches his neck. Nods slowly. "Yeah, I think about it." Swallows, swiping at his eyes one more time. When he stands, he feels the aches and pains of forty years of hard living. He looks Rebecca in the eye. _

"_Lately, it's about the only thing I think about." _

"I'm okay," Parker said, for the twentieth time since they'd gotten to the emergency room. Bones was standing on the sidelines; Rebecca was checking their kid from stem to stern.

Parker was quiet.

"They actually hit you?" Rebecca demanded again. Parker nodded.

"It wasn't a big deal, Mom. I just did what I had to do." He looked at Booth. "Dad, can we go? Please?"

Booth noticed that Bones was on the phone again. He realized she'd spent a good chunk of the day talking to someone, and only now did it dawn on him that he didn't know who, or why.

The emergency room was full of overtired kids and overstressed parents. Everyone that had been on the bus had come to be checked out, but apart from a few cuts and bruises and some very cold eight-year-olds, everybody was fine. Parker had warm tea and a blanket wrapped around him, an ice pack on his lip.

Booth nodded. "Yeah, Parks – they said we can go up whenever you're ready."

Rebecca looked at Booth, who met her gaze full on. He was prepared for a fight. This time, though, he knew what had to be done. She could fight him 'til kingdom come, she wasn't winning this one.

"I'll bring him home after," he said.

She bit her lip. There was a second before he realized she was letting them go. She gave Parker a hug, said goodbye to Booth, and then went over to talk to Bones before she left.

"You ready, bub?" Booth asked.

Parker squared his shoulders. "Is it bad?"

He considered how to answer. Finally opted for the truth. "I don't know, Parker. She's gonna be okay – we know that much, anyway. They said minor burns. There might be a little scarring, but they can take care of that in time. For now, they'll give her drugs, because she'll be in a little pain. But she's okay."

"'Cause that man laid down on the bomb."

"Sergeant Cragen," Booth said. "Yeah. That was his job, Parker. To keep you guys safe. He did what he'd been trained to do."

"And he died," Parker said. He stared at the floor for a second, then almost shyly took Booth's hand.

"I don't know what to say to her. I didn't even know her before today – maybe we shouldn't go up."

Booth stopped. Knelt there in the white-tiled hallway so he could look his son in the eye. "You don't have to, if you don't want to."

"But you would," Parker said, sober as hell.

Booth nodded, just as sober. "Yeah, Parker. I'd like to think I would. This kind of thing, nobody ever knows what to say. The important thing is, she's your friend. Maybe she wasn't before today, but from here on out, you guys shared something pretty big. You go, you talk to her. Make her laugh, let her cry, fight over who gets the last M&M… Just be there for her. That's what friends do."

"That's what you and Bones do?"

Booth smiled faintly. Bones caught his eye – gave him that smile, a little wave. He felt his heart skip when he thought of how grateful he was for his life. His family.

"Yeah, Parks. That's what me and Bones do."

* * *

"So, we've got no idea who was behind it. No idea _why _they did it. No idea where they are now."

He sighed in frustration. He and Bones were in the truck for about the millionth hour running, this time headed back to the Hoover after dropping off Parker at Rebecca's. Night had fallen. The snow had stopped. Christmas lights shone in every color, their reflections muted like watercolors on the wet pavement.

Bones took his hand. "We know Parker's safe," she offered.

He looked at her. "Yeah – yeah, we do. That was… Jesus, Bones, what a day."

"It was very…" she stopped. He let her wade through whatever was going through her head, waiting her out. She drew designs on the inside of his wrist, sorting things out.

"Very…" he prompted.

"Terrifying," she said, finally. "This is all terrifying. I know I'm not Parker's mother, but I feel…" she dropped off. He squeezed her hand.

"You love him, Bones. That's what happens. You let people in, you get attached." He leaned over and kissed her head, keeping his eyes on the road. "Welcome to the human race, baby."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I was terrified for you, too. For what would happen to you, if something happened to Parker."

"I know."

"And now we go back to the case, like none of this ever happened. We meet with Werner and Lincoln and the others…"

He sighed, rubbing at his neck. The case had gotten a thousand times bigger and about a million percent smaller in the course of a single day. He had no clue what to make of any of it.

"Yeah, that's the plan. I can drop you at your place if you – "

Her phone interrupted them. Bones looked exasperated. She checked the caller ID, turned off the ringer, and put the cell back in her bag. When she was done, she realized he'd been watching her. He tipped an eyebrow in question; she grimaced.

"Something's been happening," she said.

He scratched his head, and tried not to wince. "Do I want to know what?"

"Jamie called this afternoon from Portland." She hesitated. He saw her get sketchy when he tensed, and tried to relax. "TJ got back to Oregon all right, but now…"

"He's missing," Booth guessed. There was no disguising the tension in his voice. Bones nodded, but she didn't say anything else. All the same, Booth could tell that wasn't the end of the story. "And you've heard from him."

Another nod, another endless stretch of silence. "He left a message. He doesn't sound good. I think…" she bit her lip. "I called Jamie and told her, but thus far they've been unable to locate him."

"And they want you to come out," he said. "Jesus Christ, Bones. You think we could have two fucking minutes – "

"Why are you angry with me? I didn't make him disappear. And I'm certainly not going out there in the middle of our case – "

"Why the hell not?" he demanded, his voice rising. "You're on the phone all day with them, while my kid's – " he stopped. She looked… What? Hurt, pissed, exhausted. Booth pulled over a block from the Hoover, and turned to face her. Took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I was really scared, Bones." He looked away for just a second, trying to keep himself together.

"I know." She took his hands in hers, twisted their fingers together. Studied the way they fit for a while, before she said anything else. "I know that I'm not as… unflinching as you are, when the subject of forever is raised. But you should never question my loyalty to you or Parker. Whatever happens between us," she lowered her eyes, swallowed past something, "or doesn't happen – you and Parker will always be important to me. I would never have left you today, regardless of what else might have been happening."

He sighed. "Yeah, I know. I just – sometimes it's good to be reminded, y'know?" He leaned back in his seat. The drama of the day rolled over him; he fought the urge to turn the truck around and run for cover somewhere. "So, are we ready to hit the Hoover?"

Instead of the answer he expected, a long silence fell. For the first time since the call from Parker that morning, he really looked at her – her hair hanging loose around her face, collar of her wool coat turned up, circles under her eyes.

"Do you ever think…" She stopped.

He waited. Five, ten, fifteen seconds. A minute passed. "About…?" he finally prompted.

"Nothing. Never mind."

She turned around and faced front again. Booth twisted his body sideways so he could look her in the eye.

"Hey – think what, Bones?"

She sighed. "It's not a good question. Or, it's not a good time for it, at any rate."

"Maybe it is a good question – just ask it. Come on, Bones. You don't know everything. Give it a shot."

Another couple seconds and he'd waited her out. Still, she was shaky about whatever it was she was about to say.

"I'd like to have a child." He didn't say anything. "With you, I mean," she clarified, in case he hadn't gotten that part.

Booth's eyes went wide. He couldn't keep from smiling.

"I thought you didn't want kids – that the world's overpopulated and knowing what you do about…"

She put a hand on his arm. Stared at his shirt front for a long time, before she finally raised her eyes to look into his. No trace of doubt, but a whole lot of fear.

"I'd like to have a child. With you," she said again. So simple.

He traced her cheekbone, the shell of her ear. Twisted a tendril of hair around his finger and leaned closer.

"Okay," he said.

She smiled. Moved in and kissed him, her body pressing against his, her hand urgent at the back of his neck. They parted, but he kept his hand in hers.

"You didn't actually want to start trying this second, though, right?" he teased. "'Cause I swear, most of the time I'm gonna be game for this, but we've got some people waiting. And a case to solve."

She was flushed. Grinning like a fool. Booth kissed her knuckles as he merged back into traffic. He glanced at her; she glanced back at him.

Her phone rang again, and she ignored it.

He tightened his grip on her hand. Just like that, he felt her thoughts drifting. "If he's still missing when this is solved…" he said quietly. Bones turned to look at him, joy replaced with dread at what he imagined she knew was coming, "…then we'll go back out there together. We'll find him. You and me."

She nodded. The momentary celebration had passed, and the air was heavy with the weight of unsolved mysteries and lives that hung in the balance yet again. They drove the rest of the way back to the Hoover in silence.

_TBC_


	10. Chapter Nine

_Okay, guys, I know it's been... well, like a year since the last update. But you've been phenomenal and I so appreciate all the kind words and the support and all the rest. Seems y'all more than deserve a wrap-up here, wouldn't you agree? So, in celebration of the final Bones hiatus (I hope!) before season six wraps, I have the rest of MitM complete. There are two more parts after this - the next installment will be posted on Sunday, March 27, and the final chapter will be posted on Thursday, March 31. I really hope it was worth the wait!_

* * *

"Your dog isn't normal."

Brennan bristled. It had been a stressful day, between just returning to D.C. and Parker's abduction and the phone calls regarding TJ, not to mention her exceptionally ill-timed revelation to Booth that she would like to have children with him… And now this. Sweets, criticizing her dog.

The psychologist handed her the leash, while Dosha sat calmly at her feet. The collie's sparsely furred tail wagged slightly, but otherwise she seemed unconcerned that her new owner had been gone. Or that she had now returned.

"She is entirely normal – though I don't know how _you_ can begin to quantify such a statement. Have you studied animal behavior?"

He hesitated a moment, during which time Brennan expected he was trying to manufacture some criteria by which he _was _qualified to judge her dog.

"Well… To some extent, yes. I mean… I've seen dogs." He sneezed, and wiped his nose with a tissue. Brennan noted swelling around his eyes, a reddish tint at his lids.

"You're allergic to dogs, which would logically imply that you've had little hands-on experience with them. And you have no clinical expertise, correct?"

"Well… Not exactly."

"Forget it, Sweets," Booth intervened. "She's got you. Where the hell do you get off saying our dog isn't normal, anyway?"

"She didn't move the entire time you were gone. I tried to get her to play, and she just stared at me like I was, you know – "

"An idiot?" Booth asked.

"No, just… Well, yeah. Kind of. I even got her a squeaky toy from that place across the street."

He sneezed again, then produced a plastic mouse with what appeared to be a real fur tail. He handed it to Brennan.

She squeezed the center of the toy; it produced a high-pitched squeal. Dosha was on her feet in an instant, her tail wagging with a good deal more enthusiasm than it had before.

"She appears to like it very much," Brennan noted. Dosha danced forward and back, tail swishing, mouth agape in what closely resembled the canine version of a grin.

"Oh, sure, now she likes it." Sweets took the toy and squeaked it directly in Dosha's face. "Who's a good girl?" he asked in an absurd voice.

Dosha sat down instantly, and stared at Sweets with what Brennan felt was unmistakable derision. She was aware of the dangers of anthropomorphizing one's pet, but, really… Dosha did appear to think Sweets something of a fool.

"Oh, nice," Sweets said.

Booth grabbed the toy. "Here, let me give it a shot."

He took the toy and dragged it slowly past the dog's muzzle, squeaking it every two to three seconds. Dosha was back on her feet, prancing ecstatically. She bowed down and stuck her hindquarters in the air with a series of short, excited barks.

"Wow, look at that – she loves it, Sweets."

"You taught her to do that," the psychologist accused Booth.

"What are you talking about? We just got her."

"What the hell are you doing?"

The three humans turned as one to find Werner glaring at the lot of them. Dosha took the toy gently from Booth's hand and trotted to the corner. She circled twice, then lay down with the plaything between her paws and began chewing the fur tail delicately.

"Uh – sorry, sir," Booth said. "We were just checking on the – on Bones's dog here. Are you ready for us?"

"I have a highly decorated general, a county sheriff, three sets of grieving parents, and the manhunt to end all manhunts going down as we speak. I've got the press banging down my door, panicked parents still calling me, and at least a dozen tips from concerned citizens who swear their great uncle Joey is the lunatic who's doing this."

"I think that means he's ready," Brennan whispered loudly to Booth.

"Yeah, I got that one. Thanks, Bones."

Werner opened the door, gesturing for them to exit. Brennan glanced at Dosha, who lay calmly with her toy, utterly unconcerned with what the rest of the world might be doing.

It occurred to Brennan that, under the right circumstances, it might be much nicer to be a dog.

* * *

Despite the positive outcome they had seen with Parker and the other children on the FBI field trip, the mood in the conference room was far from festive.

"So, you're not any closer to figuring out who this was or what the hell's going on?" one of the parents demanded. Brennan couldn't recall who they were – at this point, she'd lost track of which couples belonged with which remains.

Of the individuals in the room, Brennan recognized Deputy Director Werner, General Hartwick, Sheriff Lincoln, and, of course, Sweets, Cam, Hodgins, and Angela – though she wasn't entirely certain why the Jeffersonian staff was there. In addition to the familiar faces, there were three couples – the parents of Riley White and Penny Farber and then another man and woman whom she assumed must be the parents of the child found with Janie Billings.

Booth attempted to calm everyone.

"Look, we have more now than we've had since this thing started – they tipped their hand with the bomb today. We've got descriptions, we're sweeping the bus for prints and DNA evidence… And based on what Dr. Brennan and I saw in Kentucky, I'm confident that we'll have answers for you by this time tomorrow."

Brennan looked at him in surprise. "We will?"

His expression convinced her not to pursue the issue any further.

"Now," Booth continued. "It's been a hell of a long day – everybody's exhausted. I'd like you all to head back to your hotels – "

"You want us to go back to our hotels _now_?" a woman demanded – the mother of Riley White, Brennan thought. "You bring us out here to show us the remains of our baby girl, we sit here all day watching these lunatics threaten more innocent children, and now you're telling us we should just call it a night? They're still out there, and you're going home to bed! You don't care if they – "

"Hey, those sons of bitches tried to blow up my kid today," Booth cut the woman off. His voice was tight, his body tense. "Trust me, lady, I care."

"Well, then what the hell are you doing about it?" another man demanded.

In seconds, voices were raised and chaos reigned. Booth had lost control – Brennan watched his frustration with growing concern, until a single voice rose above the rest.

"Quiet!" Werner. He looked worn, his face unhealthily flushed. "Special Agent Booth is right: everyone needs to get out of here for a while. I assure you that I have every available agent on this case. But right now tempers are short, emotions are running high, and we all need to take a step back and get a few hours' sleep."

There were some grumbles of protest before people began filing out of the conference room. Once the parents had dispersed and it was only Jeffersonian and FBI staff, Booth sat down and began thumbing through his files.

"That means you too, Seeley," Werner commanded. He looked at Brennan. "Can I trust you to get him home safe?"

She hesitated, but only for a moment. Booth did indeed look as though he'd had more than enough for one day. She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good." The Deputy Director glanced around the room before he went to Booth and lay a hand on his shoulder. "That was one hell of a job today, son. You did us all proud."

"Thank you, sir."

As soon as Werner was gone, the others gathered around the table.

"So, Parker's really okay?" Angela asked immediately.

Booth scrubbed his jaw with his hand. "Yeah. He's shaken up, but I think he'll be all right."

"Thank God," she breathed, her hand resting protectively on her swollen stomach.

"And what about you?" Cam asked Booth. "You don't look so good."

"I'll be better when we get these guys off the streets," Booth said.

"This is nuts," Hodgins said. "I mean, I love a good conspiracy, but blowing up a bus full of kids? That's just sick, man."

"Do we have any clue who this is, Seeley?" Cam pressed. "You said you'd learned something in Kentucky. So, where are we?"

Booth opened the files again and paged through them for a moment before he looked up. "I don't know how close we are to getting these guys, but things are starting to fall into place, at least. We went up to Black Ridge and met the son of the guy who was running the place back in '78, when the whole thing went down."

Brennan noted as Booth continued that he omitted the confidential information Hartwick had given them about the federal operation in 1978 to shut down Black Ridge. He detailed the meeting with Jeb Hatchet at the Black Ridge ranch, concluding with the story Hartwick had given about Hatchet digging up the bodies of the corpses his father had killed, in order to return them to their families.

"But that doesn't make any sense," Angela interrupted. "If that's true, why would he try to blow up a school bus of FBI kids now? And what about this Billings woman – somebody _just_ killed her. That wasn't old man Hatchet, right? I mean, the guy's worm food."

Booth nodded wearily. "Yeah, that pretty much blows that theory out of the water. I never really believed it anyway, but it does make me wonder why Hartwick was so gung ho to close this case that he'd just start making shit up."

The room fell silent as everyone considered this latest information. Brennan was seated to Booth's left. Since this summer, she thought he had aged – a bit more gray at his temples, the lines at his eyes more pronounced. His fatigue was unmistakable; she actually saw his eyes drift shut for a moment as the others continued to speculate on what was happening.

She thought suddenly of the countless times over the years that he had pried work from her fingertips, wrested her from the lab when she would have happily remained for the night. All those times that she had fought him, there had still been a part of her that was grateful to have someone who put her well-being above the work, when she could not.

She stood abruptly and took the files from him.

"We can discuss everything tomorrow."

Booth looked at her in amazement – as did the others in the room.

"Bones, I just want to – "

"And you can," she interrupted. "Tomorrow. Now, we're going home."

"Wow," Angela murmured. "Brennan cracks the whip. I like it."

* * *

Booth was silent on the drive back to the apartment.

"Are you angry with me for making you go home?" she asked, when the silence became unbearable.

Booth slid his arm across the back of the seat, his fingertips brushing her shoulder.

"Nah, Bones – you were right. I'm just thinking."

"About the case?"

He nodded. "I think this guy Wally Hatchet really was the one who kidnapped and killed those kids – and probably was the one who killed the original cops who stormed Black Ridge, too. I mean, he had the ranch, so he would have had access to those drugs you found in their systems, right? And it sounds like he did a lot of globe trotting… That part makes sense."

"But not the part about Jeb Hatchet digging up the remains."

"Right. The way Hartwick pushed him around while we were there doesn't sit right with me, either – for two guys who claim to get along, there was a lot of tension. I think if we could get Hatchet alone, he might have more answers."

Another few seconds of silence passed between them. When they turned onto Brennan's street and Booth still hadn't said something, she touched his arm.

"Something's bothering you."

"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair with a frustrated groan. "I just can't figure out what the hell it is, you know? It's like… right there, right on the tip of my brain – something doesn't add up. But I'll be damned if I can figure out what it is right now."

"You're exhausted. You always tell me that when I'm at a stalemate in a case, the best thing is to walk away for a little while. Take a break."

He pulled into her lot. Brennan had Dosha out and was gathering her things before she realized that Booth had yet to move.

"Are you coming in?" She felt her anxiety ratchet up yet again at having to ask the question.

"It's okay?" He looked unexpectedly vulnerable, as though her response held some power over him.

"Of course. I mean… I assumed you would."

He was out of the truck before she'd even finished the sentence. His relief seemed to re-energize him. "Thank God. Seriously, Bones – if I have to drive one more mile today, I'm gonna need an ass transplant."

"That's not actually a procedure the medical – " She stopped at the look on his face, flushing. "Not a literal ass transplant."

He merely smiled. As they were walking inside, her hand fell to his back, drifting lower as she caressed the swell of his buttocks through his slacks. She squeezed lightly. "I wouldn't want you to get an ass transplant," she said.

He laughed. They walked inside with Dosha, Booth's arm draped around her shoulders. It occurred to her then that Booth's laughter was one of the sweetest sounds she had ever heard – that, in fact, it always had been. From their first meeting, that first case, that first kiss, and through all the fights and bloodshed and tears in between, his laugh had always been something she could return to, something that had inexplicably brought her comfort from the start. The wry grin, shy brown eyes on hers… She turned just before they reached her door and kissed him.

"I love you," she whispered. It almost sounded desperate the way that she said it, her eyes brimming with tears.

Booth didn't seem alarmed, however. He returned her kiss, his arms tightening around her body.

"I love you too, Bones," he whispered in her ear, his breath hot, his words carrying the same urgency. "Forever and a day, baby… That's how long you're stuck with me."

Brennan's apartment was still in chaos from the break-in the week before. She had only remained there for an hour or two after her fight with Booth – since that time, she'd been at Angela's. The place felt not only ruined but painfully neglected.

"I'll make the bed," she said, after they'd each recovered from the initial shock of reentry. "You can take a shower if you'd like. I'll just get Dosha settled, then I may join you. It's been a long day."

"A hell of a long day," he agreed.

She stood at the doorway to the bedroom. The chaos was overwhelming, particularly given her fatigue. Booth wrapped his arms around her waist, her back resting against his chest; his lips found her neck and lingered there.

"I'll help you clean everything up as soon as we have a minute to catch our breath. This weekend, I'll bring my tool belt, we'll slap a little spackle on those holes in the wall… It'll be good as new."

"I was thinking of making some changes," she said.

"Like?"

"Perhaps expanding the closet. And it wouldn't be that difficult to add a second sink in the bathroom, would it?"

Booth's lips stilled at her neck. "You thinking of getting a roommate, Bones?"

"You're almost never in your apartment anymore. It seems impractical for you to pay rent for a place you never use."

"Are you asking me to move in?"

She hesitated. Booth didn't push, but remained behind her, arms loose around her waist. He'd stopped kissing her, his head resting lightly on her shoulder.

She turned in his arms. "Do you want to move in?"

If he weren't quite so exhausted, she expected she would see one of those wide Booth grins she'd come to love. As it was, he merely smiled and tipped his forehead to hers.

"You know I want to… I just don't want to rush you, Bones."

She kissed him on the mouth, gently, aware suddenly of how difficult the day – and the past few weeks – had been for him.

"You aren't rushing me. It's what I want. As I said, it's far more practical – not to mention better for the environment."

"You're such a romantic, Bones."

"Go take a shower," she said, pushing him lightly in the chest. "I'll meet you in there shortly – then you'll see what a romantic I am."

* * *

As it happened, Brennan had no opportunity to demonstrate her romantic proclivities; when she stepped into the shower, she found Booth leaning against the tiled wall, water cascading over his sculpted frame, eyes closed.

"Booth?" she said.

No response.

She tapped his sternum and he started. "I'm up."

"You fell asleep," she said. It sounded like an accusation, though that's not how she'd meant it.

"Nah, Bones, I was just resting my eyes." He dipped his head beneath the steaming shower spray and scrubbed his face vigorously.

"You were not – you were sleeping. You're exhausted." He didn't argue, which she took as a sign that he was even more worn than she'd thought.

"Get out," she said suddenly.

His eyes widened. "What? Bones – "

"Not out of the apartment – out of the shower. I've put fresh sheets on the bed, Dosha is settled in… I'll be there in a few minutes."

"You sure?"

She nodded. He complied without further argument.

When she was alone, Brennan felt the weight of the day bear down on her. And now, with some space from Booth and the knowledge that Parker was safe, she allowed herself for the first time that day, to truly consider the crisis unfolding on the other side of the country.

Unfolding without her.

She thought of the message TJ had left; of her annoyance at seeing his name on her caller ID, her unwillingness to answer that call.

_I figured it out, T. I've got my truth. Sometimes, it really is better not to know. _

His voice had sounded strange, devoid of the lightness she'd come to enjoy – to look forward to, even. He sounded… resigned, to a fate Brennan couldn't bring herself to consider.

The calls that had come from TJ's friends in Oregon for the rest of the day had been panicked, increasingly disturbing. She'd spoken with Jamie, Caleb, TJ's girlfriend Addie… TJ had vanished, and they all seemed positive that Brennan would somehow be better able to find him from two thousand miles away, than they could living in the same town.

_I've got my truth. _

What truth did he have? And why had it left him so distraught?

She leaned forward, resting her forehead on the cool tile of the shower wall. The hot water had given way to warm – which was irresponsible of her given the current state of the planet and the dwindling supply of drinkable water worldwide, she knew. She turned off the spray and toweled herself dry as her thoughts returned to the case closer to home.

The lab was filled to capacity with corpses at this point – particularly given the recent discovery of Janie Billings and the fifth child. Brennan had yet to see either of those bodies, and she found herself anxious to examine the Billings woman, as she would have been the most recent victim.

When Brennan returned to the bedroom, Booth was fast asleep. Dosha was curled up beside him, her long, thin muzzle resting on his stomach. At the sound of Brennan's footsteps, the collie opened her brown eyes and gazed with clear reproach at her new mistress.

Brennan sighed. "You can stay there," she whispered. "But only for tonight. After that, you'll sleep on your own bed."

As though she'd understood exactly what Brennan had said (which, of course, was impossible), Dosha closed her eyes once more. Brennan battled internally for a moment more before she admitted defeat. Sleep would not come tonight, she knew – there were too many puzzles that needed solving.

Knowing Booth's tendency to panic at her absence, she left a note on her pillow, and even went so far as to phone Jeffersonian security ahead of time to let them know she was on her way. It was more for Booth's peace of mind than her own, but she couldn't deny that she drew some comfort from such precautions.

The lab was dark when she arrived. The security guard escorted her in and checked the premises, despite the fact that Brennan felt ridiculous asking the old man for such extraordinary measures. After he was gone, she went straight to the platform and surveyed the four small skeletons displayed on the steel tables, the bones disarticulated, the skulls set apart for closer examination.

Janie Billings' body had been placed in cold storage. Brennan went into the large, refrigerated unit and unzipped the black body bag to view the victim.

In life, Janie Billings must have been quite attractive – though thin and somewhat frail, she had high cheekbones and full lips, dark hair that fell past her shoulders. Brennan thought of the child the woman had lost – Arnold, eleven years old, now lying on another steel table not so far away. She thought of the baby the woman had been carrying, and felt a shiver run through her that she could not attribute to the cold temperature of the room.

She thought of Parker and Booth. Parker wasn't even her blood relation, but she couldn't imagine facing such a loss.

"Focus, Temperance," she said aloud.

The words made her feel better.

Despite the fact that there was too much flesh for Brennan to learn very much, she wheeled Janie Billings' body from the storage unit and added her to the other bodies on the platform. Billings' apparent cause of death – though this would of course need to be verified – was two bullet wounds just above the sternum. The holes came from a small-caliber weapon, and judging by the powder burns around them, had been fired at close range.

Brennan's thoughts fell to the missing husband before she caught herself speculating and returned to the evidence. Clearly, she had been spending too much time with Booth. She searched the rest of the body until she found what she had been looking for, branded somewhat awkwardly on the outside of the left tibia. The same insignia that the other victims bore: _RTR. _

_Remember the Ridge. _

Other than that insignia and the fact that Billings had been pregnant, thus making her a loose approximation of the young mother lost at Black Ridge, Brennan could find no other similarities between her murder and that of the children's bodies dumped in nearby parks over the past week.

When examined, she found that the fifth child – found with Billings' body – was consistent with the other bodies: skeleton largely intact; previously buried judging from the amount of soil and particulates on the bones; Missing Persons poster with the body. The body belonged to a male, approximately six to eight years old. She found the faded insignia – _RTR – _on the right femur.

After examining this last set of remains, she took a step back in frustration. What was she even looking for?

She knew how the children had died. Knew where they had been buried. In all likelihood, if Jeb Hatchet and General Hartwick's story was to be believed and it was, in fact, Wally Hatchet who had abducted and killed the children, what questions could she possibly answer?

Evidence of who had returned them to the parks, she realized. Whoever had done that was in all likelihood the same person who killed Janie Billings and placed the explosives in Parker's bus.

She went to Hodgins' work area and began looking at the evidence there – particulates, larvae, stray fibers… All of which told her a great deal about where the bodies had been, but nothing about who had transported them.

Except for the sheets.

The high-thread-count sheets the bodies had been wrapped in – where were they? She went into evidence and began riffling through until she found the sealed plastic bags containing the mysterious sheets.

This wasn't her area, though. She didn't do fibers – she did bones. What the hell good did that do her now? In this case, bones had failed her. Or, more accurately, _she_ had failed. She replaced the bagged evidence and returned to the bodies.

Janie Billings was the key.

She returned to her office, frustrated by her inability to find any evidence to aid Booth in his investigation. At her desk, her eyes drifting closed even as she sat there, Brennan found her thoughts returning to TJ. Was he all right? It was four o'clock at the Jeffersonian – which meant it was one a.m. in Portland.

_I've got my truth. Sometimes, it really is better not to know. _

She thought of the case he'd asked her to investigate – the death of his father, allegedly at his mother's hand. The initial investigation had been sloppy, but, according to TJ, he had remembered the truth when he'd undergone hypnosis with Sweets. His mother truly had killed his father.

Was there another truth he'd learned, though? Something even more horrific than the affirmation of his mother's guilt?

As she drifted to sleep at her desk, Brennan found herself thinking once more of the murders that had brought her into TJ's life in the first place. Philip Taylor's face wavered before her: the eyes she'd been taken in by, the natural humor and ease. Why had TJ's mother admitted her guilt only upon seeing her young son with Dr. Taylor?

Dr. Taylor's face appeared again… The enigmatic smile, the lean good looks, the eyes.

The eyes.

She knew those eyes.

Suddenly, she was certain she knew the truth of which TJ had been speaking in his message.

* * *

Booth was in the woods. Kentucky, Oregon – hell, he could've been back in the jungles of Venezuela for all he knew. All that mattered was he was surrounded by trees, and the gun in his hand wouldn't load – he was fumbling with the cartridge while the wind blew and rain came down and on the path up ahead he could see Parker, running for all he was worth.

"Slow down," he yelled. Parker didn't even turn around, though. Something moved in the trees – a shadow that swept down, moving faster, getting closer and closer to his kid.

Parker just kept running, oblivious to everything. Booth could hear him laughing, but it wasn't the laugh Parker had now – it was the two-year-old Parker laugh, the giggle that used to rock his whole body, set his blonde curls flying.

"Parker! Come back here! Dammit, Parker!"

The gun he couldn't load was now gone; Booth didn't know where it went. He stood there empty-handed with his heart in his throat, watching the shadow get closer to his kid. And then, Parker turned. He was far up ahead on the path – too far really for Booth to see him, but Booth saw all the same, and when he did, he stopped moving. Stopped breathing, willing himself to just wake the hell up.

On Parker's cheek, just below his eye, a scorched hole burned orange. Booth could see the three letters – _RTR – _and he would have given just about anything for this dream to be over.

"I love the park – don't you, Dad?" Parker said. He was closer all of a sudden, in that way of dreams. Booth felt himself relax.

"Let's get out of here, bub – come on."

"They want you to come, though, Dad – why else would they bring me here?"

And like that, in an instant, Parker was gone again. Booth stood alone in the woods as a shadow that wasn't exactly a man, more like some nightmare demon Booth couldn't hope to catch, wove in and out of the trees.

He started running – too slow, barely moving, and he caught a glimpse of Parker and then a glimpse of the shadow and then, like he'd switched channels mid-stream, the scene changed. He was still in the woods, but the rain had stopped and he wasn't alone. He came up on a crime scene. Bones was crouched by a body while police mobbed the place and lights chased the shadow he'd been dogging all night, farther back into the trees.

Angela, Hodgins, and Cam all stood over the body, arms crossed.

"You should have known," Angela said, looking right at Booth.

"Dude – seriously," Dream Hodgins said. He wore a scuba diving suit and smoked a pipe. "Why else would they bring him here? They want to make sure your guys came to the party."

Booth took a step closer without wanting to, wanting to be anywhere but here. He caught a flash of camouflage racing through the trees just before he looked down at the body on the ground.

Parker stared back at him – sightless, lifeless, the insignia from the Ridge burned into his cheek.

Booth woke with his heart drilling through his ribs and his pulse roaring in his ears. He was sweating, air in short supply, and he sat bolt upright in the still-dark-bedroom, trying to work past the panic.

_Why else would they bring me here?_

Parker. Booth tried to get back to a logical place, to think this thing through in the kind of terms Sweets might… His kid had been the body, but maybe that hadn't really been the point. Maybe the point wasn't Parker, but the other victims…

_Why else would they bring me here?_

He thought of the scene – a park, just like all the other parks the bodies had been dumped at. The flash of camo, the insignia…

Booth was on his feet before he was totally out of the dream, already looking for his phone before he realized something pretty critical was missing from the room.

"Shit," he said, loud enough for the dog to look at him like he'd offended her. Or maybe she was just pissed he'd woken her up when the rest of the world was clearly still sound asleep.

Before he'd worked himself up too much over the fact that his partner was missing in the middle of the night yet again, Booth found Bones's note on her pillow.

_Booth,_

_Don't worry – I'm just at the lab. I called security and gave them the message to contact you if I hadn't checked in at the front desk by 1:30. Call me when you're up. _

_Love, Brennan_

_P.S. – If I'm not back before you leave, could you take Dosha for a short walk and give her three-quarters of a cup of the kibble Maylene gave us? I'll come get her later this morning. Thank you. _

He glared at the dog, who didn't seem all that worried about any of it.

"Great. It's not like I'm in a rush to save the freakin' city or anything."

Dosha thumped her scraggly tail on the carpet. Booth dove into action.

He found a clean suit in the closet and was fumbling his way into it while he dialed, running through a list in his head of how best to approach this. His first call got the results he thought it would, though he wasn't exactly over the moon for being right. It was four-thirty in the morning, but he didn't hesitate before he made the next call, searching through the notes he'd taken over the weekend until he found the number he was looking for.

The phone rang through to voicemail the first time; he hung up and dialed again. After five rings, a bleary woman's voice answered on the other end.

"Somebody better be dyin'."

"Is Jeb there?" Booth asked, without bothering to apologize.

The phone was handed over without another word, and a second later Booth found himself on the line with Jeb Hatchet.

"The lady's right – somebody better be dying," the man mumbled into the phone.

"This is Special Agent Seeley Booth – I need to ask you a couple questions about the story you gave my partner and me the other day."

"And you couldn't do that _after_ the sun was up?" The words might have been glib, but something about the man's tone told Booth his call wasn't really a surprise.

"Hartwick and Lincoln never checked into their hotel last night," Booth said. "And neither of them are answering their cell phones. You know anything about that?"

Not a word on the other end of the line – in fact, things went silent for so long Booth thought they'd been disconnected.

"Jeb, listen – that story Hartwick gave us, about you digging up those bodies and bringing them here… Was that true?"

"That was the story he gave, huh?" Jeb asked. He didn't sound surprised; he didn't sound all that happy, either.

Booth thought of the other night – standing there in the dark while Hartwick told him a story he'd known all along was bullshit.

"Was it true?" Booth pressed.

"He's the law, right? He's a friggin' psycho with enough firepower to blow me and my whole family right off the map. If that's the story he told, I guess I'm gonna have to go along with it."

"Somebody took a busload of kids yesterday and tried to blow them up – my son included," Booth said. "I need to know if Hartwick had something to do with it."

More silence, longer this time. Booth had his shirt halfway buttoned and one shoe on, images from his dream still replaying in his head.

"Somebody's gotta pay," Jeb finally said. "That's Hartwick's party line. But he's not workin' alone… I don't know who else is in on it, but he's not the only loose cannon out there right now."

"Lincoln?" Booth asked immediately.

"I don't know – I'm not even s'posed to know about Hartwick. But once the bodies started turnin' up, I figured… Well, the General kept tabs on my daddy for a good long time before he pulled the trigger. He knew where old Wally buried those kids."

"He thinks we're responsible," Booth said.

"The Feebs," Jeb said. "FBI, start to finish – they're the ones who approved the mission in the first place, they're the ones that hung the General and his men out to dry while everybody was pointing fingers, calling 'em a bunch of redneck hillbillies who'd blown up a ranch of innocent kids…"

It was all falling into place. Booth's heart rate picked up again, thinking about exactly what this meant.

"So, that bus full of kids yesterday…" he said.

"That's not the General's style," Jeb said. "If y'all found that bomb before it did what it was s'posed to, I'll bet my finest filly that that's just what he wanted you to do."

Which meant the whole nightmare yesterday with Parker had been a diversion; if it ended with all those kids dying, Booth was willing to bet Hartwick wouldn't have shed any tears over it. But that hadn't been the goal. Booth thanked Jeb and was just about to hang up when the man stopped him.

"You're gonna have to get him, Agent Booth – before he comes back here. You make sure you catch him. Otherwise, you're gonna have one more family's blood on your hands. There's no way he's gonna let me see another sunrise once he finds out I talked to you."

"I'll get him," Booth promised. He hung up, wishing to hell he felt half as confident as he sounded.

Booth was already out the door when he realized Dosha was looking at him with that mangy muzzle and those big, pathetic brown eyes. He grabbed her leash and headed for the stairs, punching in Werner's home number as he did so.

It was ten 'til five, and he had a bad feeling that time was running out.

"What?" Werner answered on the second ring, his voice rough and thick with sleep.

"It's Seeley Booth, sir."

"I know who it is, dammit – what's happening?"

He took a breath. Outside, it was still dark, the air cold and clear, the streets empty. Dosha was taking her time nosing around a couple of frost-covered bushes along the side of Bones's building, and Booth was doing his damnedest to keep his head.

"I need you to clear the Hoover, sir."

"Did you miss the part where it's still the middle of the night, Seeley? 'Cause I'm thinking the Hoover's pretty fucking clear at five o'clock in the morning, two days before Christmas."

"I mean for the day, sir. And whatever cleaning crew, guys working overtime, security… They should all be out."

"What've you got, Agent?" This time when Werner spoke, the sleep was gone from his voice.

"I don't have time to explain, sir. But I also need you to put out a BOLO for Hartwick and Lincoln."

"They're not at the hotel?"

"They never checked in last night."

"Maybe they just picked a different hotel – "

"They're not picking up their cell phones, either. Please, sir – you've gotta trust me on this. It was them. It's been them all along. If you'll just get in touch with security, and then I'll need a team of dogs to go through the place…"

"You think it's another bomb?"

He hesitated. Over the years, Booth had been in a hundred different situations where listening to his gut had made the difference between him catching the bad guys or winding up worm food at the end of the day. He had a bad feeling this was gonna be another one of those times.

"I don't – To be honest, sir, I don't think it's a bomb. Hartwick's spent too long planning this, thinking about it. He's gonna want to be there to look in our eyes when he pulls the trigger."

"Our eyes?"

"Feebs," he said, using the word Jeb had chosen. "Federal agents. He thinks the FBI's to blame for that day on the Ridge – and for the killing spree Wally Hatchet went on afterward, killing those cops and their kids. He brought those bodies in and dumped them in the parks to make sure we got involved."

Dosha finally did her thing and Booth ran her back upstairs, tossed three-quarters of a cup of kibble in her dish, locked the door as he left Bones's place, and managed to get downstairs and into his truck in record time, while Werner was still figuring things out on the other end of the line.

"Federal land," the Deputy Director finally said. "Those body dumps were like personalized invites to the party. How the hell did I miss this?"

Booth was surprised at the question – he'd been asking himself the same damned thing.

"So, you're saying whatever's gonna happen will happen today, at the Hoover," Werner said.

"Will you make the call?"

Booth pulled out of the parking lot going too fast, laying off the siren only because if Hartwick was already at the Hoover he didn't want to spook him. He heard Werner whisper something to someone – his wife, probably. He thought of the smiling, Botox-heavy picture the Deputy Director had shown him, and all of a sudden a picture of Bones popped into his head. He was willing to bet Mrs. Werner had never disappeared in the middle of the night to hang out with dead bodies 'til dawn.

"Booth – you still there?"

Booth snapped back to earth. "Yeah – yes, sir. Sorry. I missed that last part."

"I said I'm gonna head to the office and talk to security, get shit under way with ATF. You can't say for sure this isn't a bomb, and I'm not gonna run the risk just 'cause your gut's got a good track record. What's – "

"I don't think that's the best idea," Booth interrupted. "Uh – respectfully, sir. But I think it would be wisest if you lay low today."

He took a corner too fast and the truck went up on two wheels, his heart skidding in his chest for a second before he righted the vehicle and tapped the brake. The city was already waking up – early risers out for a morning run, workaholics trying to get in a few extra hours before everybody took off for Christmas. Booth's fingers tightened on the wheel.

"You want me to put my people in harm's way while I… What?" Werner demanded. "Hang out at home and watch soaps with the missus all day?"

"I just think Hartwick will be looking for bodies that'll make the most impact – this is his endgame here. Whatever happens today, I don't think he's booked a return trip home this time out. That means he'll do whatever he needs to do to get the results he's lookin' for."

"All the more reason for me to be here," Werner said. "I know the risks, Seeley. Always have. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna send men and women into battle without me, just 'cause I'm a little higher up the food chain. I'll meet you in the lobby in half an hour."

After he hung up with Werner, Booth made himself take a couple of deep breaths before he hit speed dial.

Bones answered his call on the first ring, like she'd been sitting on top of the phone or something. Booth was still fifteen minutes out from the Hoover, his adrenaline already running high. All the same, he found himself breathing easier when he heard her voice.

"All this disappearing in the night's givin' me gray hair, Bones."

"I left you a note – and I called security. Aside from a low-rider on my ankle, I don't know what else I can do to set your mind at ease."

"Lojack, Bones. Lojack. Listen, I need you to call Cam and have her go over Janie Billings, and you get started on the bones just as soon as you have a second."

"That's what I've been doing – it's been exceedingly frustrating. I have to admit, I'm not certain what I'm looking for at this point. And everyone else is already at work – they've been here for some time."

Booth felt a quick flush of gratitude at the news. He'd spent a lot of his career working alone; it was nice to be part of a team again - especially one that he knew had his back, no matter what.

"Tell Cam I want the slugs that killed Janie – and anything else you can find on the body that'll ID the killers. Though I've got a pretty good idea who it was."

"Wait – how do you know? I've been here all night, and I haven't been able to – "

"I'll explain later. But let everybody know that I really appreciate them havin' my back on this."

"We always have your back, Booth. You know that."

There was a pause on the line – one of those pauses that in Bones-speak usually meant there was something she wasn't sure she should say.

"You hear anything more about TJ?" he asked. He did his best to keep his voice neutral, but he couldn't guarantee he'd succeeded.

"I…" She stopped. He waited her out. "Booth, I figured out what he's so upset about."

Booth was headed east on Constitution Ave when a garbage truck pulled out in front of him. He skidded to a stop and checked his watch again. Quarter past five. He hoped to God Werner had gotten on the horn to security to start clearing the building.

"Booth?"

"Sorry, Bones – I'm here. What did you figure out?"

"You're distracted – you don't need to hear this right now."

"Nah, Bones… You wouldn't bring it up if it wasn't important." He did his best to focus on her words. "What did you figure out?"

"It was the nasal aperture that ultimately made it clear to me – it's very distinctive. I don't know how I missed it before."

"_Bones." _

"Right, sorry – you don't know what that is. I believe someone told TJ that he wasn't Alan Wright's biological son. And I believe he learned who his father truly was."

"And that would be…?" The garbage truck finally got out of the way and Booth hit the gas as he sped past, just barely avoiding somebody on a goddamn bicycle in the middle of December. He was tempted to hit the guy, just on principle.

"Philip Taylor, Booth. I did a preliminary blood analysis, and though I don't have definitive DNA results back yet, I'm confident that I'm correct about this."

All of a sudden, Bones had his attention.

"Wait a second – you're saying Dr. Demento, the guy with the cemetery in his backyard… the guy who would've filleted you if we hadn't gotten there in time…"

"Was TJ's father. I believe that's why TJ's mother finally confessed when she saw Philip Taylor with her son – he threatened to tell TJ the truth. She'd been lying all that time about having murdered her husband, but ultimately it was Philip's threats that persuaded her to admit her guilt and turn herself in."

"Jesus," Booth said. For a second, he felt a twinge of sympathy. Sure, TJ was kind of a smarmy snake who'd tried to steal Bones right out from under him, but there was no denying the guy had been dealt a pretty shitty hand.

"Booth," Bones said. He could tell just from the way she said it that whatever she was about to say wouldn't be good. "I've booked a flight – I leave at ten a.m. I think I know where he is."

"No." The word was out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about it. "Not on your life, Bones. I'm wrapping this thing up – we'll go out there together."

"You can't forbid me to go somewhere, Booth, no matter how much you may believe you're doing it for my protection. I spent all night here trying to be of some use in this investigation, and I got nowhere. This is something that I _can _do. I don't think he'll listen to anyone else, but I know what TJ is going through."

"You know what it's like to find out your father wasn't the man you thought he was, and instead turns out to be some psycho killer?"

She didn't answer. He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, swearing to himself while trying at the same time to keep the frustration out of his voice.

"Okay… So, yeah, you do know how that feels. That doesn't mean you have to go out there, though."

He reached the Hoover almost before he'd ealized he was there, and pulled up short about a block from the building. Bones hadn't said anything, which meant she was either giving his argument some thought or she'd just tuned him out. Great.

"I have to go, Bones. Just… Book a later flight, give me a few hours – "

"I don't think TJ _has _a few hours, Booth. You didn't hear him on the phone. I'm sorry. I've already spoken with Cam – she agrees that the bulk of my work on this case is done, at least for now. I'll call you when I land in Portland."

"Goddammit, Bones." He stopped. He'd unconsciously sunk lower in his seat, scanning the street for signs of life. "I can't do this right now, I've gotta go. But please, Bones, I'm asking you. Okay? Give me a couple hours. Don't go out there alone."

"I'll give Cam your message regarding where she should focus her attention."

She paused for a second. When she spoke again, her voice was softer – that tone she got when she realized she'd done something that maybe wasn't quite as human as other people would've been in her place. "I shouldn't have told you about this right now – you're obviously in the middle of something. Please don't worry about me. Just be careful, all right? We can talk later."

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you a little later. You just get the squints in there and you guys do your thing. All this stuff with TJ… I promise, Bones, once this is done, we'll figure it out together."

He hung up, scanning the horizon once more for a sign of Hartwick. There was nobody, though – the street was practically empty, just a couple of cars parked at meters, somebody walking their dog half a block down. He got out of the truck staying low to the ground, his gun drawn and close to his body as he bolted across the street.

The Hoover was dark when he got there – too dark, he realized once he stepped into the lobby. Security waved him through. There were two guards on watch at the front desk – Jensen and Beckett, two ex-Marines with good eyes and not much in the way of a sense of humor.

"We just lost power," Jensen said. He was tall and lean, with a buzz-cut and small, sharp eyes that reminded Booth of some bird of prey on the Nature channel.

"How long ago?" Booth still had his Glock out, the guards eying him like he might be about to go postal and they'd already plotted their takedown.

"Fifteen minutes –maybe twenty. With all the snow lately, there've been outages all over the place – everything iced over last night and it's screwed with the power lines."

"But the generator should be on by now, shouldn't it?" Booth's mouth felt like he'd swallowed half a case of cotton.

"It's an old building – hell, half the shit in this place has been around since the days of J. Edgar," Beckett said. "It'll kick in soon." Beckett was smaller than Jensen, a former middleweight champ with dark hair and dark eyes and a nose that had been broken one too many times in the ring.

"Has anybody come in here this morning? In the past hour or so?"

"Not a soul. The place's been dead to rights since we got on at midnight."

The men were starting to get that look – not uneasy, necessarily. More like they'd caught the whiff of a storm, and they wanted to make sure they'd be dead center when it hit.

"What's going on, Seel?" Jensen said. "Should we be making some calls?"

Booth considered that. Werner was on his way; he would have called in whoever he thought should be here, including the ATF to start checking the place for explosives. But in the meantime, Booth didn't want to risk tipping Hartwick off, pushing him to drastic action that would only mean more bloodshed.

"No," he finally said, after some thought. "But I want you guys to start making some calls around the building – I'm thinking there're probably a few agents in here working overtime, trying to wrap things up before they take off for Christmas?"

"You know it," Beckett said. "Half accounting's been here all night – some computer glitch a couple days ago. And then there's the usuals – the ones who might as well pay rent at Hotel Hoover."

Booth nodded. "Good. I want you to get on the horn – call everybody who's here. Be calm, be cool, but tell 'em…" He thought about it. "Tell 'em the power won't be back on for another couple hours, and you need everybody out while a crew comes to check out the generator. Space out the calls – I don't want to see some kind of mob scene heading for the nearest exit."

* * *

Booth had forgotten that no power meant the switchboard was down. A couple of the guys from floor security had to go from office to office to get word out to everyone that they were shutting the place down 'til electricity could be restored. Within fifteen minutes, people started dribbling out from the stairwell, just a couple at a time. There was no question that they knew something was up, but Booth Was relieved to see that everybody seemed to be keeping it together.

Werner showed up a couple minutes later, looking tired but still in control – new suit, fresh shave, the whole bit. Booth felt a rush of admiration for the man; hell, he'd barely remembered to put his pants on before he'd gotten out the door this morning.

Two guys with bomb sniffing dogs joined them in the lobby, Jensen and Beckett sitting in.

"So, what do you think this guy's plan is?" Werner asked Booth, straight off.

"He's not gonna be shy about it, that's for damned sure," Booth said without hesitation. "He put a lot of thought into this – he's looking for a big finish."

"But not a bomb?" the lead ATF guy asked. "The Deputy Director mentioned your theory." He was a lean guy with hound dog eyes and hound dog jowls and an actual hound dog tugging at the leash in his hand. Booth thought for a second of Cragen, who'd lost his life less than twenty-four hours ago because of this case.

"I don't know that for sure," Booth admitted. "It's just a hunch. You guys should still go ahead and do your thing."

"What about the power outage?" Werner asked. "It seems like a little too much of a coincidence for my taste."

"Yeah, I'm with you there," Booth agreed.

He took a second to consider the whole thing, paying attention to all the shit about this that was bugging him. Why the huge rigamarole yesterday, if they didn't really care what happened to the kids at the end of it all? What was the purpose of the diversion? It had gotten them invited into the Hoover, sure, but what was the big deal if they were just gonna walk right out again?

Booth felt a chill go through him, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end.

"When you left last night, sir, were you with the families of the victims?" Booth asked Werner.

Werner shook his head. "I went back to my office to get my shit together. They'd gone by the time I was out the door."

"And you guys came on at midnight," Booth said, looking at Jensen and Beckett. They both nodded. "Where's the sign-out sheet for everyone who was here?"

Jensen went and got a clipboard from the front desk. Booth scanned the names with Werner looking over his shoulder, his stomach getting tighter with every passing second. When he found what he was looking for, it took him a second to find his voice.

"They're in the building," he said, so soft he wasn't even sure anyone had heard him.

"What do you mean, they're in the building?" Werner demanded.

"Look at the signatures – sign-ins versus sign-outs," Booth said. He pushed the clipboard into Werner's hands. "They don't match. There was a whole crowd leaving last night – people pissed off, yelling, crying." He looked to the security guards for confirmation. Beckett nodded. "It would've been easy to miss. Somebody else signed out Hartwick and Lincoln."

"Shit. They're still here," Werner said, finally catching on. He'd gone white. The Deputy Director was just going for his phone when Booth grabbed his arm.

"Wait, sir – if they're in here, they have the advantage. There are civilians on every floor, and about a hundred places to hide. If they see the place swarming with cops, it'll force their hand. I don't think we want to do that."

"So, what the hell do you propose, Agent? We just let them take the place over?"

"We keep doing what we're doing," Booth said. "Send ATF home. A few of us will do a sweep of the building, get people out. Quietly."

He waited for Werner to put up a fight. He didn't. Instead, the Deputy Director ordered the bomb guys and their bomb dogs out. Then, he went to the security desk and scrounged around until he came up with a couple of walkie talkies. He tossed one to Booth, and kept one for himself.

"Where do you want to start?" he asked Booth.

"No disrespect, sir, but – "

"If you tell me to go home one more time I'm gonna knock your teeth in, Seeley. Now – you taking the high road or the low road? We've got six floors to cover."

"We already got the first two," Jensen said.

"Okay, then – four floors," Werner said.

Booth felt his heart go still for a second, thinking about that.

"When was the last time your guys checked in?" he asked Jensen. Jensen looked to Beckett, who shook his head. He looked at the clock. "Twenty minutes, maybe."

It had been a while since the stairwell door had opened and more employees had spilled out, too. Booth snagged a Kevlar vest from a storage closet behind the security desk, and tossed another one to Werner.

"I'll start on four," he said. If it was him, he'd be holed up just as high as he could get. "You guys clear the first three floors. Check-ins every fifteen minutes." He looked at Werner. For sixty-plus, the man looked fit and calm, his eyes sharp. A soldier going into battle.

"You sure about this, sir?" Booth asked.

"Ask me that when it's over. Now let's go."

* * *

Without lights or electricity or the steady hum of computers, the Hoover felt like a ghost town. On the fourth floor, Booth kept close to the wall, his gun out and his hands steady. Everything went still at times like this. It wasn't healthy, maybe, that Booth dealt this well with a crisis, but he'd spent a lifetime honing the skill. Other people might panic in these situations; Booth took to them like a fish in water.

There were just a couple of women from accounting in their offices, and they were already packing it in when Booth found them. He walked them to the stairwell – both young, pretty, flustered but handling it well. Booth walked into the stairwell first, checking the levels above and below for any sign of trouble. Once he'd decided it was clear, he gave them the go-ahead.

They were almost to the first floor when Booth's walkie talkie crackled and Werner's voice came on.

"I'm at the east end of the second floor – I have a guard down. Repeat – guard down."

The stairwell door on the third floor opened. Booth stood a flight above, heart hammering, still doing his damnedest to make sure the accountants made it out safe. His eye was on that third floor door, making no move to answer Werner yet, gun trained on whoever was coming into the stairwell. He saw a dark head of hair, lean body – the man looked up, and Booth finally breathed.

"Booth? Wow – am I glad to see you."

Sweets.

On the first floor, the two women had frozen like their nerves had finally gotten the best of them. Booth resisted the urge to call down to them, afraid he'd give away their location. Instead, he gave them a couple of seconds and was relieved when they finally got it together and left. Sweets was coming up the stairs toward him; Booth hurried down to meet him halfway, grabbing his walkie talkie at the same time.

"Roger that, sir – Message received. Should I call in an emergency team?"

"Negative," Werner crackled. "I found two guards down, Seeley. Both dead. These guys aren't waiting to send their message – they're well under way."

Booth cursed softly. He met Sweets halfway between the third and fourth floors. The kid had gone pale, his eyes even wider than usual.

"Was that the Deputy Director?"

"Yeah. We've got a situation, Sweets. I want you to turn your skinny ass around and walk down those stairs and right out to your car, get in, and drive home. I'll explain later."

"There's someone in the building?" Sweets whispered.

"It's fine, Sweets – we've got it under control."

"It's General Hartwick, isn't it?"

Booth just stared at him. Sweets slapped his palm against the concrete wall.

"Dammit – I knew. Like, totally. I stayed here last night going over everything, trying to beef up the profile. I should've called somebody – "

"It wouldn't have mattered, Sweets. They were already in. Whatever they've got in mind, they'd already set it in motion."

"What they've got in mind is killing us. Black Ridge took everything from these guys – it's like… Imagine if this were you," Sweets said, on a roll now. "You've spent your whole life serving your country, believing that you were serving a higher calling, and suddenly this entity that had become almost like a godhead just, like, shuts you out. Slams the door in your face. And not only that, but they essentially set you up to take the fall for all their misdeeds. And _then _– "

"Wait – how the hell do you know all this? This is supposed to be top secret."

Sweets blushed a little. "I may have inadvertently accessed a few files that I didn't have direct authorization for… But I figured given the alternative of all of us dying in some fiery fit of vengeance, the PTB might look the other way."

Booth didn't know who the hell the PTB were, and he didn't ask. Instead, he took Sweets's arm and dragged him back down the stairs. Sweets stopped at the third floor, though. He was just going for the doorknob when Booth stopped him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing – haven't you been listening to yourself? What happened to the fiery fit of vengeance?"

"I need to get my stuff. These guys have met me – they know I'm the one working up the profile. It's entirely possible that they'll try to destroy my files – "

Booth started to grab him and bodily toss him the other way when his walkie talkie crackled again.

"Spotted gunman east end level three." Jensen, his voice strained, breath coming hard. "Repeat – gunman spotted on level three. In pursuit."

Booth heard a gunshot in stereo – one that came from just a wall away on the third floor, the other through the walkie talkie. And then, before Booth had a second to stop him, Sweets opened the door.

Everything went still, that breathless instant that Booth always felt just before he took a shot; that instant when everything was crystal clear. That instant when he could see the future.

There was another gunshot, and this time Booth could see the shooter standing about ten feet from the doorway, gun aimed right at them. Booth dove for Sweets a second too late – one second after the bullet left the barrel. One second after that look he'd never forget in the kid's eyes, a kind of bewilderment when he felt the impact.

And Sweets went down.

He and Sweets hit the ground together – the main difference being that Booth got up again. He knelt over the kid, dimly aware of Hartwick standing a few feet away, trying to tear his gaze from the deep red stain blossoming on Sweets's rumpled Oxford shirt.

"Drop the gun," Hartwick said.

Booth kept his finger on the trigger. It was a colossal effort to look the man in the eye.

"Game's up, General. They're coming for you."

"The more the merrier," the General said. "I'm looking forward to the party."

Before he could do anything – take aim and fire at Hartwick, tend to Sweets, _something – _he heard a soft snick behind him – a sound so familiar that he would've known it blindfolded. Someone releasing the safety on a gun.

"Put it down, Agent Booth," said the voice behind him. He turned to find Don Billings, the distraught dad from Vermont, standing in the stairwell doorway.

Booth's jaw tightened. He waited a second, maybe more, weighing his options. Sweets's eyes were open, his breath coming hard; Booth fought the urge to panic. He gently set his gun on the ground.

"Now push it this way – nice and easy," Hartwick said. "Come with us."

Booth didn't move. "I'm not leaving him," he said, nodding toward Sweets.

Billings came over then, the gun leveled at Sweets's head. Booth saw the terror in the kid's eyes, heard his breath catch.

"Please," Sweets whispered, a tight quality that Booth recognized. Pain. Panic. Terror.

"No! You want something from us right?" Booth asked, turning to Hartwick, trying to keep his own voice steady. "You're looking for justice – but a bigger justice than just more bodies, am I right? You want us to be held accountable. You'll have better leverage with live hostages than dead ones."

"We've got enough live hostages to make our point," Billings said. He pushed the gun's barrel deeper into Sweets's forehead. Sweets closed his eyes. He was a hell of a lot more composed than Booth would have expected.

The gunshot sounded far away – miles away from this place, this time. Booth surged forward knowing he was too late, it wouldn't make a fucking difference, only to realize that the gunshot he'd heard had sounded distant because it _was _distant. Billings gun came up, away from Sweets. He and Hartwick exchanged a glance. The shot had come from the floor below, if Booth had heard right.

"Get him up," Hartwick ordered Booth, nodding toward Sweets. "You want him alive, you're gonna be the one to keep him that way."

Booth nodded. He got to his knees. His hands were shaking as he pressed down on the gaping wound in Sweets's belly.

"Ow," Sweets kind of gasped. His eyes were wide. "They shot me. I mean – holy cow. What the hell?" His breath was coming hard.

"Get him up," Hartwick said again. "We've gotta move."

Booth took off his jacket and pressed it against the wound. "I've gotta move you, Sweets."

Sweets shook his head. His hair was damp from sweat, like he'd just gotten out of the shower. "No offense, but I think that's a bad idea. Really. Maybe we could just stay here awhile."

"No can do, buddy," Booth said. "Ready? Count of three, Sweets." The man's eyes drifted closed. Booth slapped his cheek – just once, but hard enough to sting.

His eyes snapped open again. "Ow – jeez, Booth, what was that for?"

"You gotta stay with me – okay, Sweets? I'm getting us out of this – "

"Hey!" Hartwick roared. He sounded just like the drill sergeant Booth knew he'd once been. "Cut the chitchat – pick up your fucking friend and get moving or I'll put a bullet through his skull and we can end the debate here and now."

Booth paused for just a second, mouthing the words "I'm sorry," before he grabbed Sweets and hefted the man over his shoulders. He waited for a scream, but all he got from was a gasp – this little intake that cut him to the bone. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the brave face Sweets was putting on was for his benefit.

"Where we going?" he asked, directing the question at Hartwick.

"Top floor – conference room. The Deputy Director said that'll suit our purposes best."

"You've got Werner?" Booth asked.

"We've got Werner," Billings confirmed. "All told, I'd say we've got just about everybody we need."

They returned to the stairwell. Booth hiked three flights with Sweets over his shoulder, making the kid talk to him every minute or so, just to be sure he was still there. He could feel blood soaking his own shirt from Sweets's belly wound; the thought sent a cold shot of fear straight through him.

When they finally reached the conference room, Booth was sweating bullets, a stitch in his side and his back just a hair shy of spasming. He followed Hartwick inside, Sweets still on his shoulder, Billings bringing up the rear.

Inside, Werner and Beckett were sitting at the table, while Werner's secretary – Alyce – was at the window. Sheriff Lincoln stood by the door, a Glock hanging at his side. He looked like every ounce of hope he'd ever had had been bled out of him, and now he was just here to see things through before he let the darkness swallow him for good.

"I need to set him down," Booth said through gritted teeth.

Alyce gasped when she saw them, and Werner's face went white.

"What the fuck did they do?"

"Shut up," Hartwick commanded. "Everybody stay where you are. I told you, Booth – you want him alive, you keep him that way."

He nodded toward the corner. "Lay him down over there, and keep quiet."

Booth did as the man said, laying Sweets down as gently as he could on the old, stained carpet. Once he was down, Sweets's eyes fluttered open. His face had gone a dangerous shade of gray.

"Thank you," he whispered to Booth. "I owe you one."

"Yeah – buy me a beer once we're out of here, Sweets, we'll call it even."

Booth stripped out of the blood-soaked shirt he'd been wearing, leaving himself with a t-shirt damp with sweat and pink at the shoulder with more blood. Then, his eyes on Sweets the whole time, he tore the shirt into strips. In the background, Booth was dimly aware of an argument between Hartwick and Werner, but he was too focused to pay anybody much attention.

He pulled up Sweets's shirt and blanched when he saw the bullet hole. It was low down on the left side, placed just perfectly to cause maximum damage and maximum pain. As gently as he could, he rolled Sweets onto his side to check for an exit wound, but Sweets cried out all the same.

"It's never like this in the movies. Nobody ever tells you it hurts this bad," he said. He was gasping for air, his pupils like saucers.

"You're okay, Sweets," Booth said. He got no reaction from the kid, though. Sweets's eyes drifted closed again. "Hey – look at me. Trust me, this is a walk in the park. Guys in my squad still ran drills with scratches like this. The bullet went clear through. You're golden, Sweets."

Sweets got that look he used to get in therapy when Bones and him were still doing the dance – like they were knee-deep in their own horseshit, and Sweets was the only one smart enough to know it.

"I know you're just saying that so I won't panic."

"Yeah? Is it working?"

Sweets closed his eyes again. This time, Booth let him.

"Not really," he said, his voice fading. "I appreciate the effort, though, Agent Booth."

When he was out, Booth just sat there for a few seconds - watching Sweets fight for breath, his blood already soaked through the scraps of shirt Booth had used for bandages. He looked around at the others in the room: Don Billings at the door with his gun at the ready, something hard there that Booth hadn't seen when he'd first met the man in Vermont. It was Hartwick that he was worried about, though. The General had come here to die, and Booth would bet the house that the plan was to take just as many people down with him as he could. Things were quiet for the moment, but Booth had a bad feeling that Sweets wasn't the only one who'd be fighting for his life today.

_TBC_

_

* * *

Okay, friends... Sunday, and the wrap-up on Thursday. I know there's angst and blood and turmoil, but eventually we'll make our way through. I think. :) Thanks for sticking with me through the very long wait - be sure to press the magic button to give me your thoughts if you have a moment!  
_


	11. Chapter Ten

_And, right on schedule (I know - I can't believe it, either!)... The next chapter in our saga. A little word of warning up front now: There's some angst in this. Like, seriously. I can't be more specific because I don't want to give away the farm, but... Yup. Angst. With a capital A. There's also a little bit of smut and some TalkingDirty!Booth, so - clearly I'm trying to write something for everyone. And for those of you who are not on Livejournal, just wanted to let you know that I will actually be continuing with this storyline. I'll begin posting the next story, The Apprentice on the Island, the Sunday after the Bones season finale... Which is sometime in May. That fic is actually mostly written, so rather than taking years to reach the end, I will actually be doing weekly updates throughout the summer. And now... Read away, kids. Final chapter will be posted Thursday. _

* * *

Brennan had spent the better part of the morning on the platform, surrounded by remains and interns and colleagues. In an effort to inject a modicum of holiday spirit into the lab, Angela had decorated with white lights and garland. Perhaps it was simply lack of sleep or her own mixed feelings regarding Christmas, but Brennan found the effect more macabre than anything else.

And now, at 8:15 on the morning of December 23rd, Brennan found herself in her office, staring at the overnight bag she'd learned to leave at the Jeffersonian for occasions just like this. If she was going to make her flight, she would have to leave now – it was the worst time of year to travel, and she was not looking forward to the endless security lines, the crowded airport, or the inevitable influx of crying babies and sickly passengers.

Angela came in, a sour expression on her face, her arms crossed over her chest. She and Hodgins had arrived at the lab at five a.m; Cam had gotten there nearly an hour before that. Brennan felt that it said a great deal about their commitment to not only the case, but to Booth and the victims of Black Ridge, that everyone was giving so generously of their time. Judging by the strain on Angela's face, however, Brennan conceded that such devotion did not come without a price.

"Please tell me you're not seriously doing this," Angela said.

"The victims have been identified," Brennan said. She looked her friend in the eye as she said it, a defensive quality to her tone that was not intentional. "Both Wendell and Daisy are here to handle whatever might be necessary in the way of additional skeletal analysis – they are both more than capable of covering for me until I return."

Angela didn't respond, her expression growing more severe.

"He'll die, Angela," Brennan continued. It seemed important, somehow, to make her understand. "TJ will die if I don't stop him. I know I have no tangible evidence to support that conclusion, but… I feel it. I heard it in his voice. I know where he went, and I know that he went there intending to kill himself. No one else will be able to reach him the way I can."

"You're not God, sweetie – you can't take that responsibility on your shoulders. And no offense to TJ, but I kind of hate the guy right now for making you feel like you do."

"He didn't ask me to come out there – there was no way for him to know I would do this. This is my choice."

Angela shook her head in disbelief. "It's your choice to travel two thousand miles from home in the middle of a mammoth case after your boyfriend – who is crazy about you – specifically asked you to wait for him? It's your choice to go into the same woods you still have nightmares about, up to the mountain cabin where you were almost killed just a few months ago? _That's _your choice? Because frankly if it is, sweetie, you need some help."

Cam had had a similar reaction. But, Brennan honestly didn't know what else to do; she couldn't seem to stop thinking about it. No matter how much effort she put into focusing on the case at hand, it seemed her formidable powers of compartmentalization had finally failed her.

"I would never tell Booth not to go," she said, when she could think of no other response. "If someone's life was in danger and I knew he could help, even if I was afraid for him, I would never tell him to shirk that responsibility."

Angela didn't look dissuaded by this argument, either. "Well, maybe that's not such a great thing, Bren. Maybe the whole point of having somebody who's just ours is to be able to say, 'I don't care if it's selfish and the weight of the world is on your shoulders – don't go. Because I love you, and you matter to me more than anybody else on this godforsaken planet.' That's all Booth is saying here."

Brennan felt tears sting her eyes. She shook her head fiercely. "Please, Angela. I have to go. I don't know when Booth will be done with whatever he's doing – I need to get out there."

Angela did not soften, her arms still crossed, manner still deeply disapproving. "So, go. But if you're waiting for me to give you permission, or… absolution, or something… I'm sorry, but you're gonna be waiting a long time, sweetie."

The airport was just as crowded as Brennan had anticipated. She tried calling Booth twice, but he wasn't answering. She thought of their conversation that morning. It struck her as yet another example of her inability to read him until it was too late. Clearly, something had been going on – some break in the case that he didn't feel he could share. He had obviously been preoccupied, but she plowed over that and rambled about TJ and TJ's problems until she'd succeeded in fueling Booth's anxiety even more.

She felt inexplicably angry with him about the whole thing. Why hadn't he simply stopped her rambling? Told her _something _about what he was facing, so that she'd felt they were in this together.

At nine-thirty, feeling exhausted and torn in too many directions, Brennan stood and prepared to board the plane. She was standing in line with her bag over her shoulder, lost in thought, when her eyes drifted to a large television screen on the far wall.

A photo of someone who looked very much like Booth appeared. She stared at it for a moment, struck by the similarity, until she realized that it _was _actually Booth in the photo. A feed was running beneath it, the print too small for her to decipher from where she was standing.

She felt her mouth go dry. An instant later, her cell phone rang. She recognized Cam's number, and answered with her heart rate accelerated and her palms sweating.

"What happened?" she asked immediately.

"He's okay," Cam said, and Brennan was grateful to the woman for addressing the only issue that, at the moment, seemed important. "At least he is right now – I don't have all the details yet. But it looks like he and some others are being held hostage."

"By whom?"

Inside the airport, the line was finally moving quickly to allow passengers to board. When it was Brennan's turn, the woman behind the counter waited impatiently for her to hand over her ticket. Brennan shook her head and stepped out of line without a second thought.

"General Hartwick," Cam said. "He's the only one they know for sure. There were shots fired at the Hoover, and there've been reports of casualties; at least six dead that they know of so far."

"But Booth isn't one of them," Brennan said.

"No – they've got a negotiator working with them. He asked who Hartwick had; Booth was one of the ones he listed."

"I'm on my way," Brennan said, without asking for any further details. She hung up and avoided the screens detailing the unfolding saga in the Hoover Building. Fighting a growing sense of urgency, she left JFK, retrieved her car, and pointed it back toward the Jeffersonian.

* * *

Once Sweets was out, Booth stood and rejoined everybody else. Hartwick and Werner were still fighting, while Lincoln just stayed off to the side looking more and more gone by the minute. They'd drawn the shades in the room – which meant that without electricity, it was pretty fucking dark in there.

"How is he?" Alyce asked, once Booth was at the table.

"We've gotta get him to the hospital – fast. The bullet went through, but it hit low – if it nicked the intestine, he doesn't have much time."

Werner looked at him, and Booth figured he knew exactly what the old man was thinking; hell, he was thinking the same thing himself.

_How the hell do we get out of this?_

A phone at the center of the conference room table rang. Everybody just stared at it for a second, before Hartwick finally hit speaker.

"It's about time," he said.

"Can you tell me who I'm speaking with?" a voice asked on the other end of the line, sounding cool and collected. A negotiator. Booth thought he recognized the voice.

"This is General Harry T. Hartwick," Hartwick said. "We have your assistant director here, as well as Special Agent Seeley Booth, Alyce Chapman, a security guard by the name of Beckett, and your company shrink. I'd say we've got a few Feebs that might make you boys sit up and take notice. And a few more who weren't so lucky."

"We're all sitting up out here, General," the negotiator said. "But we need proof of life before we start negotiating. Can you let me speak with the hostages?"

Hartwick nodded toward Werner. Werner was sitting up tall in his chair; Booth had the feeling that if the old man hadn't known it could get more of his men killed, he would have taken on the General all by himself, without a second thought.

"We have someone injured," Werner said. "Doctor Lance Sweets has been shot. He needs immediate emergency medical attention."

"And who is this?" the negotiator asked.

"This is Deputy Director Werner."

"And can you tell us the condition of the other hostages, Deputy Director?"

"We're fine, but – "

Hartwick picked up the phone, turning his back on everyone.

"That's enough – you get the message. Now, I want you to start rounding up the press. Camera crews, print, radio… I want to see a fleet of news vans outside this building. Call me again in half an hour, and we'll talk."

He hung up before the negotiator could say another word. Booth noticed that Lincoln and Billings still looked nerved up about everything going down, but not Hartwick. Hartwick looked like everything was going just like he planned it. Frankly, it made Booth nervous as hell.

Not sure what else to do, he went back over to Sweets. Booth had traded the shirt scraps he'd started out with for a couple of clean hand towels he'd found in the connecting bathroom; they were already soaked through, blood still seeping from the wound. If Sweets didn't die of shock or trauma, he might just end up bleeding out right in front of their eyes.

Werner came and stood over them, looking at Sweets grimly.

"This is why I never leave the house mad," he said. It wasn't what Booth had expected. He looked at the man questioningly.

"Sir?"

"It may look like we're safe as houses most of the time in this place, but I know the score," Werner said, his eyes still on Sweets. "I've got a rule – whatever fight I've been scrapping with Sophia about from the time I got home the night before, no matter how pissed I might be… Once I get to the door, it's done. I give her a kiss, tell her I love her. Whatever happens once I'm out in the world, whether I come home at the end of the day or not, I know Soph'll never doubt what she meant to me."

Booth didn't quite know what to say. The two men stood that way for a few seconds, silent, staring down at Sweets' motionless body.

"We had a fight this morning," Booth finally said quietly.

"You and Temperance?" Werner asked. It surprised him; Werner obviously knew about him and Bones, but talking about something like this with the Deputy Director wasn't something Booth ever could have imagined.

"Yeah," he said. "She, uh… There's a case. A follow-up thing from this summer, back in Oregon. She booked a flight." He glanced at a clock on the wall to his left. It was nine o'clock. "She's probably at the airport now. I told her to switch to a later one – we'd go out there together."

"Pig-headed," Werner said.

Booth kind of laughed, scratching his head. "You don't know the half of it."

"All the best ones are. Sophia… Jesus. I can't tell you how many times I've come this close to strangling her. Or walking out. Or strangling her, then walkin' out."

"Twenty-two years, huh?" Booth asked.

"Thirty, actually," Werner said. "The first eight were rocky. I didn't figure out the 'Never leave pissed off' thing 'til we were well into things."

Werner looked behind him – tracking where everybody was, Booth could tell. Hartwick and Billings were talking now. Lincoln's eyes were pointed their way, but Booth had a feeling the man wasn't seeing a damned thing going on in front of him.

"You got some kind of plan here, Seeley?" Werner whispered.

Booth stepped closer to him, so that they stood shoulder to shoulder. "I want to get Sweets out of here first – he's not gonna last much longer, and I don't want him lying in the middle of everything if a firefight breaks out."

"And if we do get him out…?"

"Hey! You two – back here," Billings shouted. He made it across the room with a few long strides. "Opposite sides of the table." He indicated a chair for Booth, then prodded Werner in the back with his gun as he herded him to the other side of the long conference room table. "I hear whispering and I'm gonna get nervous. That's not something you wanna see."

Booth could believe that. Hartwick may have been a sociopath and Lincoln may have taken a permanent vacation from the real world, but he could tell that Billings was the one to worry about. He was already twitchy as hell… That could be a good thing, if Booth worked it right. Or it could get them all killed.

"So, what's your plan here, General?" Booth asked, looking at Hartwick.

Hartwick peered out the corner of the blinds at the parking lot below before he answered the question.

"We're starting with a press conference – national coverage."

He came back and stood at the head of the table, a cigarette dangling from his lips, hand on his gun. The General wore camouflage from top to bottom, which seemed a little pointless to Booth given their setting. If he was trying to blend, a cheap suit would have made a hell of a lot more sense. He wore camo fatigues, camo baseball bat, worn combat boots, and Booth could see the outline of a survival knife strapped to his ankle. Clearly, the guy was living out some kind of Guns & Ammo fantasy from hell.

"And how do you propose you get this press conference?" Werner asked. "Are you just gonna invite the whole fucking press corps up here?"

"We've got the details worked out. Don't worry about us." This from Billings, standing with his back against the wall and his rifle at the ready.

A picture of Janie Billings flashed in Booth's head. He thought of the couple that night in Vermont – how concerned Billings had seemed about his wife. Had Booth really misread the situation so much that this guy who'd seemed like a devoted family man could just turn around and kill his wife and unborn child?

Booth didn't buy it. However distracted he might have been that night, there was no way he could have been that far off base.

"Nobody's gonna say a word to you without a show of good faith on your end," Booth said. He ignored Hartwick, talking to Billings instead. Billings looked at the General straight off, just like the good little lapdog he was.

"You think that's true?"

"I've got everything under control," Hartwick said. He glared at Booth, Booth thinking all the while, _Good. Divide and conquer. This is how we'll get 'em. _

On the other side of the room, Sweets came to with a cry that sent chills up Booth's spine. He went back over without asking anybody for permission. Nobody tried to stop him.

Sweets had never been the kind of guy you'd describe as exactly swarthy, but now Booth had seen bleached sheets with more color. He was pouring sweat, his eyes wide with pain and shock. Booth knelt beside him and put his hand on the kid's belly. It was hard as a rock.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, Sweets."

"Where's Dr. Brennan?" the kid asked out of the blue, his eyes wild.

"What? She's not here –relax, okay? I want you to just try and breathe. You're gonna make it, Sweets."

He looked at Booth. There was something older about him – Booth was reminded for a second of the kid Sweets had once been, beaten to shit and abandoned. However he might act, Sweets had been to the dark side before. Right now, that experience was plain on his face.

"It's okay," Sweets whispered. His voice was still strained, but there wasn't any panic there. "This isn't your fault. Whatever happens, it's not your fault. You just – "

Booth turned away with a lump lodged in his throat. "We need to get him out of here." He almost choked on the words, yelling them across the room to anybody who might be listening. "You want to show some good faith and get your press conference, then tell them you'll let somebody come for him."

Sweets grabbed his arm. His hands felt like claws, clutching at Booth's skin.

"You can't let Dr. Brennan go back there without you, Booth. She's fighting a war, but it's not the one you think it is. She needs you there to make it to the other side."

His eyes slipped shut again. Booth something building in his chest – panic or grief or fury, he couldn't tell which.

"Goddammit, you need to get him out of here." He stood and whirled on Billings, who seemed to have come over just to watch Sweets die.

"Is this worth it?" Booth raged, all of his frustration unleashed now. "Killing your wife, risking two dozen innocent kids, giving up your career, your _life_, just so you can stand here and watch a fucking twenty-two-year old kid who wasn't even _alive _when this whole thing started, bleed to death?"

The color drained from Billings' face. He looked at Hartwick, then at Booth. "What are you talking about? My wife…"

A warning light flashed in Booth's head. He ignored it.

"Your wife's dead. You didn't know that? You didn't know it was part of the General's plan to use her, too? Or was that _not_ part of the plan, General? Did Janie find out something you didn't want her to know?" Booth's eyes drifted to Hartwick.

The blow came so fast that Booth didn't have time to prepare. Billings smashed his rifle through the air, and hit Booth in the jaw so hard that it brought him to his knees. When he looked up, the man's eyes were huge. A trail of tears tracked down his ruddy cheeks.

"You're lying," Billings whispered.

Booth touched his lip, and came away with blood that tasted like cold copper on his tongue.

"Are you gonna tell him?" he asked Hartwick.

Billings turned to the General. It felt like everybody else in the room was holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Booth kind of felt that way himself.

"I didn't want to tell you," Hartwick said. His eyes went soft. Booth had seen some good actors in his day, but this guy deserved an award. "They killed her, Don," the General continued. "They're still trying to cover their own asses – they must've found out that Janie knew. I'm so sorry."

Booth had the urge to look away at the pure agony on Billings' face. The man sat down like his legs had failed him, gun hanging loose at his side.

"I talked to her yesterday," he said. "I… We were…" He looked at Booth. "She was pregnant. Did you know that, you son of a bitch?" His voice rose on the last words, and then Billings was on his feet again, pressing the barrel of his rifle so hard into Booth's chest that he could feel it break the skin.

"He's playing you, goddammit!" Booth roared. Frustration and fatigue had stripped him of the last bit of diplomacy he might have had left. "Can't you see that? Why the fuck would we kill her?"

"Put the gun down, Don," Hartwick said. The emotion was gone from the General's voice – he was a commander again, addressing a cadet who'd stepped out of line. "You'll get your chance, but we have a plan here. We don't stray from the plan."

Billings nodded. Calmer now, tears still falling. He let the gun drop and stepped away – back to the door, where he stood and cried openly, his back turned to everyone else.

Booth stood and wiped the blood from his mouth. He looked at Lincoln, trying to make somebody in this fucking place see reason. "You know he's lying," he said. "You know he was the one – "

"Shut up," Hartwick roared, finally losing his cool. "I've had enough of you. Sit the fuck down and don't say another word."

Booth opened his mouth; in a split-second, Hartwick had his gun aimed at Sweets' forehead.

"One more word, Agent Booth. Go ahead – I'm looking forward to it."

Booth shut his mouth.

Another twenty minutes passed in silence. Booth had taken his spot next to Sweets again, feeling helpless as hell as he watched the kid's skinny chest rise and fall, his breath getting more and more shallow.

When the phone rang again, it startled Booth so much that he actually jumped. Hartwick hit speaker.

"I don't see many news vans out there – that's the best you could do?"

There was a long pause on the line. "Before we give you anything, you need to give us something. At least let us come get Doctor Sweets."

Booth couldn't seem to get a breath, waiting for the verdict. Hartwick scratched his head. Thought long and hard. Then finally, "We'll give you the shrink if you give us the press conference. One medic can come in and take him out – "

"The elevators aren't working," the negotiator interrupted. "To get this man down six flights of stairs, we'll need at least two EMTs in there. Unless you want to release another hostage to help carry him."

Booth waited. He looked across the room; Beckett and Alyce were standing against the wall together. For a second Booth wondered if they might be cooking something up themselves. He hoped to Christ they weren't; at this point, almost every scenario he thought up seemed to end in disaster.

"No – no other hostages go. Send two EMTs, then," Hartwick said. It was pretty clear that he was pissed at the forced compromise. "And you'll want to hurry. He's not gonna last much longer."

* * *

Everyone was gathered around the television set in Cam's office when Brennan returned to the lab. She was reminded of the afternoon when they'd all watched Booth's press conference together; it seemed like a lifetime ago. When they'd first started this case, this had been the last place she would have imagined they'd end up.

Angela met Brennan at the door with a big, tearful hug; Brennan returned the embrace and dropped a kiss on her best friend's cheek for good measure.

"I'm sorry I was so mean to you," Angela said.

Brennan smiled, despite herself. "You weren't mean to me, Ange. I understood your perspective."

"Well, thank God Cam reached you before you took off. And all I can say is, I'm so over this case it's not even funny. It's like a nightmare that never ends."

Brennan nodded. She noted that Daisy was standing apart from the others, her arms crossed over her stomach. Her normally animated face was drawn and pale, tears streaking her cheeks.

"What's wrong with Ms. Wick?" Brennan whispered to Angela.

"Cam didn't tell you?" Angela took a breath and let it out in a sigh, fresh tears starting. She wiped them away before she continued. "Sweets was in the Hoover when this nut job took the place over. He's hurt – bad, it sounds like. They're trying to convince the bad guys to let him go, so he can get medical care."

Brennan couldn't seem to think of an adequate response to this news. Hodgins came over and put his arm around Angela's shoulders, resting his hand on her stomach.

"Did you eat something?" he asked.

Angela made a face. "How am I supposed to eat something now?"

"Easy," the scientist said evenly. "Grab a tater tot or a bagel or a Raisinette, pop it in your mouth. Chew, swallow. Rinse and repeat." He bumped her shoulder. "C'mon, Angie. Tell her, Dr. B."

"At this stage of a pregnancy, nutrition for both mother and fetus is critical."

Hodgins lifted an eyebrow toward Angela. "See?"

"Fine," Angela agreed. "But you'll call me if anything – "

She was interrupted when Cam's phone rang. Wendell muted the television, and the room fell silent. Cam said only a few words before she hung up.

"They're going in to get Sweets," Cam said, once she was off the phone. The pathologist looked at Daisy. "You should go, Ms. Wick – I'm sure they'd let you ride to the hospital with him, or just… be there."

"What about Booth?" Brennan asked.

"He's only releasing Sweets," Cam said. "But as far as anyone knows, Booth's status hasn't changed. He's all right."

"But if they're letting Sweets go," Brennan persisted, "he's going to try to get a message to me." As soon as the words were out, she was convinced they were true. "He'll tell us how we can help – what he needs to get out safely."

Cam hesitated. "I don't know that General Hartwick will be that accommodating about – "

"He'll find a way," Brennan said. She looked around for Daisy. The intern was already on her way out the door; Brennan grabbed her bag and ran after her.

"Ms. Wick," she said. She had to repeat it twice before Daisy seemed to hear her, and turned around.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Brennan. Dr. Saroyan said I could – "

"No, of course – that's fine. You can go. I'd like to come with you, though. We can take my car."

Daisy sniffled and wiped her eyes. Brennan was reminded of a wayward child.

"Thank you," she said. "That would be nice."

It was the most succinct phrase she could ever remember the intern uttering.

* * *

Pennsylvania Avenue was cordoned off for three blocks around the Hoover Building. Brennan parked as closely as she could, then she and Daisy ran the rest of the way. Once they reached the scene, Daisy stopped a few yards from the center of the activity. News vans lined the streets, along with police cars, ambulances, firefighters… It looked as though a war had broken out in the middle of Washington D.C.

When Brennan thought of the body count so rapidly rising in this case, she supposed the comparison wasn't that outlandish.

"What if he's dead?" Daisy asked suddenly, frozen.

Brennan touched her arm. "They said he was still alive."

"But he's hurt badly – that's what they said. Critically injured. What if he's dying, and I'm the last person he sees and I say something wrong, or… I'm terrible under pressure. Not academically, of course, but personally I never know – "

"Daisy," Brennan interrupted. "If it were you in Sweets's place, what would you want?"

Daisy looked at her in surprise. She took a breath, a pained smile touching her lips. "I'd want Lancelot," she said softly, her eyes wet. "If it was my last breath and there was only one other face I could see before I died, I'd want it to be Lancelot's."

Brennan managed to suppress an unexpected smile at the intern's melodrama. Instead, she nodded toward the building.

"They'll be bringing him out soon. You should go."

She followed Daisy to the ambulance, stopping to provide credentials and explain to the police who they were and why they should be permitted to stay.

The air was cold, the sky gray and heavy with the threat of more snow in the afternoon to come. Brennan realized she'd forgotten a jacket. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, squinting up toward the top floor of the Hoover. That's where she had heard Booth and the others were being held – in the same conference room where she'd sat with her partner countless times before.

The shades in the room were drawn, but she found herself wondering if Booth was watching the scene below. Did he know she was here, or did he think she had left him behind yet again?

A flash of the night she'd spent on the mountain came back to her suddenly – the pain, the terror… The conversations she'd had with an imaginary Booth, a vision her mind had manufactured but that had nevertheless provided comfort. She closed her eyes for just a moment, picturing Booth's face. If she could, she would send him a message – just two words.

_I'm here._

She whispered it aloud, eyes still closed, feeling as silly as a child making a wish. "I'm here, Booth."

She opened her eyes quickly, glancing around to be certain no one had seen her. Despite the knowledge that such an action was pure whimsy, she felt better for having done it. Then, she took a breath and forced herself back to the grim scene before her. Two EMTs were carrying Sweets out of the building on a stretcher; Brennan headed for them immediately, the goal clear in her mind.

It was time to save Booth.

Brennan had honestly expected histrionics the moment Daisy spotted Sweets. On the contrary, the intern seemed to become calmer the moment they reached the psychologist. Police and emergency technicians were swarming the vehicle, and Brennan paused to watch a detective intercept someone with a camera just as they snapped a photograph of paramedics attending her fallen colleague.

For Brennan's part, she found herself unprepared for, and surprisingly affected by, Sweets' condition. He was unconscious and intubated, a bandage that Brennan suspected the paramedics had just applied already stained through with blood at his midsection.

"Wait," she said, once she'd managed to find her voice. The paramedics were preparing to load Sweets into the ambulance. They looked at her with unmasked impatience.

"Did you see anyone else – the others in the room?"

"They're all okay," one of the EMTs – a short, redheaded man – told her. "Now, you have to step back. We've briefed – "

"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan – my partner is up there. Did anyone say anything to you?" she pressed. "My partner is a tall man – good looking, well-built, with dark hair…"

"Please, miss – we've gotta get this guy to the hospital."

They virtually pushed her out of the way. Brennan felt her own sense of urgency mounting. What the hell was she supposed to do now – how did Booth expect her to help him, if he didn't tell her what he needed?

She stood there and watched as Daisy climbed into the ambulance after Sweets had been loaded and the paramedics were inside. The doors closed. All around, people were shouting. Video cameras had been set up, reporters speaking into microphones, the police trying to keep a growing crowd at bay.

And Brennan, standing in the middle of everything, with absolutely no idea what came next.

Just as she was about to turn around and return to the Jeffersonian, defeated, the ambulance stopped. It was perhaps fifteen feet down the road when the rear doors opened, and the redheaded paramedic hopped down. He spotted Brennan and ran for her, something clenched in his hand.

"You said you're Dr. Brennan?" he asked.

She nodded as he pressed a scrap of paper into her hand.

"This was in his pocket – sorry. I just found it."

She uncrumpled a bloodstained gum wrapper. It took a few seconds before she could decipher the smeared words. Once she had, she turned around and raced back to her car, running as though her life depended on it.

* * *

"I'm sorry, I have no idea what this means," Angela said. "And – my God, is that blood? That's Sweets's blood."

The artist looked as though she might be sick.

Brennan had called ahead to let the others know she was on her way, and would need their assistance. Now, they were all crowded at the lab's entrance as Brennan tried to explain what Booth had given her.

" 'Prove H killed JB' – that's what it says," Brennan explained. She pushed the gum wrapper at Cam, who shied away, choosing instead to read it while it was still in Brennan's hand.

"She's right, actually."

"Of course I'm right. H is Hartwick; JB is Janie Billings." She sprinted up onto the platform, forgetting to swipe her keycard as she went. Lights and sirens flashed; guards came running.

Brennan ignored them all.

"What do we know?" she asked Cam. The pathologist dutifully followed her up the steps.

Cam had already conducted the autopsy, that morning. Because the body was intact and death had been recent, there had been no attempt to remove the flesh so that Brennan might examine the skeletal remains.

"The x-rays I took this morning – has anyone looked at those?" she asked.

"They're still up," Wendell told her. "I didn't look too much… I figured it was more likely that Dr. Saroyan would find something."

"And did she?"

Wendell blinked at her uncertainly. "Uh – Did she…?"

"Did Dr. Saroyan find something?" Brennan pressed.

"Well – No, not yet. Not that I know of. But I figured I'd focus on the boy that came in last – because he was, you know… Bones. And that's kind of what I do."

"We have to forget about the boy," she said.

The others had gathered in a semi-circle around her – Hodgins and Angela, Cam and Vincent Nigel-Murray and Fisher… All looking at her as though she'd lost her mind. She felt her frustration mounting.

"We know what happened to the other victims – the deaths of all five children has been explained satisfactorily."

She whirled, her heart pounding faster now, and came face to face with Cam.

"I need you to get rid of the other remains," she told the pathologist.

Cam looked startled. "I'm sorry?"

"Get rid of them – they're too distracting. We have one case right now; one body. That's all."

"But the particulates from the other – " Hodgins began.

To Brennan's surprise, Cam interceded. "No – you know what? Dr. Brennan is actually right here. But leave the bodies where they are. We'll reconvene in the autopsy bay – we can work the remainder of this case from there."

No one moved.

"Hey! Chop chop, people," Cam shouted. "The clock's ticking on this one. We've got two of our own whose lives are on the line because of this case. Let's not blow it."

* * *

The autopsy bay smelled of chemicals and decay. Brennan didn't care for it, particularly. She never had.

Janie Billings lay on the exam table, nude, a neatly stitched Y incision running from her clavicles down to her navel. Angela blanched and turned away from the body.

"You don't have to be here, Ange," Brennan said gently.

Angela shook her head. She stood up straight, swallowing in such a way that Brennan could track the movement in the artist's graceful throat.

"No – I'm here. You'll need me on this one."

"I always do," Brennan said. Angela met her eye, a faint smile touching her lips.

"All right," Brennan began, once everyone had assembled. "Booth's note said that we need to prove that General Hartwick killed this woman. I am assuming that the proof he needs does not need to be of the same standard as that we might present to a grand jury…"

"Quick and dirty, people," Cam interjected. "We'll convict this guy later. Right now, we just need to connect him to Ms. Billings' murder."

"What do we have so far?" Brennan directed the question at Cam.

"The subject is a thirty-one-year-old, healthy Caucasian female. She was shot twice at close range with what we believe was a .22."

"Kind of a girly gun for a guy like Hartwick," Hodgins noted.

"The fatal shot punctured the left lung," Cam continued, "resulting in tension pneumothorax. Death occurred within minutes."

"What about particulates?" Brennan asked. "Hair or fibers, fingerprints…?"

"She was dumped with the last kid," Hodgins said. "We did a surface inspection to look for any prints that might have transferred to the skin, but so far no dice."

For over an hour, the investigation continued along these lines. Brennan or someone else would pose a question; the results would invariably lead nowhere. She found herself watching the clock more than the body before her – a body that, ultimately, only frustrated her more. She could do bones. All this flesh, though, left her feeling less than adequate.

"So, there's no way to link this guy Hartwick to the gun?" Angela was saying.

Brennan forced herself back. Hodgins had taken some scrapings from the body and was back analyzing them at his station. Wendell and Fisher were going over the x-rays; Vincent Nigel-Murray had been charged with procuring lunch, which Brennan had no desire to even consider.

It was she, Angela, and Cam in the autopsy bay, Janie Billings still between them. In deference to the dead (or perhaps, more accurately, to the living), Angela had insisted on draping the body with a sheet.

Now, Brennan found herself staring at that sheet.

She caught her breath.

"Was this body wrapped like the others? Like the children's remains?"

Cam nodded. "In a sheet with the boy's skeleton, yeah."

"Where is that sheet?"

"The evidence locker, with the others. And Hodgins took a sample to test for DNA – there was blood on it."

Brennan raced from the room as Cam shouted after her, but she was deaf to the pathologist's words. She would get Booth his proof.

She came to a skidding halt in Hodgins' area. He looked up from his microscope with some alarm; that alarm quickly transitioned to something else at the look on her face.

"You've got something," he said with a smile. "Hit me, Dr. B. What've we got?"

"The sheet – Cam said there was blood on the sheet. From Janie Billings."

"Yeah – the fatal shot wasn't much of a bleeder, but the other shot nicked an artery."

Cam and Angela crowded in behind her, but Brennan had eyes only for the evidence. She'd done it. Now, she just needed to get to Booth before it was too late.

* * *

Once the medics had taken Sweets, Booth found himself mostly just sitting on his hands, watching the clock. The "press conference" Hartwick had set up was for one o'clock – it seemed impossible to Booth that he'd only been here for a few hours. It felt like days that he'd been locked in this fuckin' room.

Billings was getting closer and closer to the edge, while Lincoln just got more distant. And Booth still couldn't figure out Hartwick's endgame in all this. The press conference made sense, sure, but… There had to be something else to it. Something he was missing.

Through everything that was happening, the only thing that gave Booth any hope at all was the thought that maybe Bones had listened to him – that she hadn't gone back to Oregon. She had his note, and any second now that phone would ring and she'd come through with what he needed.

"I have to use the bathroom," Billings said, interrupting the silence that had fallen over the room. "Can you hold down the fort?" The question was directed at Lincoln, who just looked through him with that fifty-yard stare of his.

"General," Billings turned to Hartwick when Lincoln didn't answer after another few seconds. "Are you sure he's got this thing covered…?"

Hartwick nodded. The General was at the window – his favorite spot, as far as Booth could tell. He'd been parked there for a good part of the morning, peeking out through the blinds.

"The way he fucked up this morning…" Billings continued.

Booth perked up. How had Lincoln fucked up this morning?

"We're past that now," Hartwick said calmly.

Billings didn't look so sure. "If he hadn't cut the electricity when he was – "

"Shut it," Hartwick snapped. His voice was dangerous. He turned around to see if anybody was listening to the conversation. Booth dropped his eyes, hoping it would look like he was lost in thought.

"I told you," Hartwick said. "We're past that now."

"It was losing the electricity that tipped them off, though," Billings pushed on. "If that hadn't happened, this place would've been full when – "

Hartwick raised his gun and pressed it to Billings' forehead so fast and fluid that Booth barely saw him move.

"Shut. Up," he said.

Billings shut up.

The phone rang again. Booth glanced at the clock; it was ten minutes 'til one.

"You have everything in place?" Hartwick asked as soon as he answered.

"We do," the negotiator answered. Booth felt himself sink when he heard the voice – which definitely wasn't Bones's voice. But then, what the hell had he expected? He knew where she was… And it wasn't here.

"We have a two-man crew and a reporter coming up," the man continued on the other end of the line. "Now, it's time for you to hold up your end of the bargain. Release two more hostages."

Hartwick nodded to Lincoln, who nodded to Alyce and Beckett. He opened the door and stepped out of the way. Alyce shook her head.

"I'm not leaving without the others."

"Alyce," Werner snapped.

The woman raised her chin, crossing her thin arms across her chest.

"Fire me if you want – it doesn't matter to me. I'm not leaving."

"For Christ's sake," Billings muttered. He took a step toward the old woman, his eyes hard and his gun raised.

Booth stepped between them. "Don't," was the only word he could grind out past his rising anger.

"Is there a problem, General?" the negotiator asked, still on speakerphone.

"No," Hartwick snapped. He nodded his head toward Beckett.

"You – get out."

Beckett looked guilty for a second, but then Booth imagined the guard thought of the wife and kids he had waiting at home. The security guard took a shaky step forward.

"Go on, son," Werner encouraged him.

He left the room.

"The guard's on his way out now," Hartwick said, addressing the negotiator now. "He's all you get for the moment. You can send your crew up."

"General, we had an agreement. Two hostages – "

The negotiator stopped suddenly, and there was what sounded like a struggle on the other end of the line. And then, out of the silence, a voice so familiar Booth could have cried, broke through.

"The bloodstain on the sheet Janie Billings' body was in came from oxygenated blood – "

Hartwick started to go for the phone, but Booth dove for it. "What the hell does that mean, Bones?" he shouted.

"She was alive – she bled out _while_ she was in the sheet. The same type of sheet all the other bodies had been wrapped in… She was still alive when Hartwick had her."

The butt of Hartwick's gun came down hard at the small of Booth's back. He recoiled, the pain shooting up his spine like sparks as Hartwick snatched the phone off its cradle and cut Bones off. The General's body was tight with fury, his eyes wild. But not nearly as wild as Billings.

"What – who was that?" Billings demanded, looking at Booth.

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Booth asked. He tried to stay quiet, calm, all the while listening to Hartwick scream at Bones in their one-sided conversation.

"Think about it, Don," Booth continued. "Why would the Feds kill your wife, but not you? And why wouldn't we have killed the General years ago, if we were so set on shutting up everybody who knew about Black Ridge? But if Janie found out what you guys were planning – "

"Shut up!" Billings shouted. His gun swung from one person to the next in the room, his hands shaking so hard Booth was afraid he'd hit the trigger without ever even going for it.

Hartwick threw the phone across the room, yanking the cord out of the wall as it went. The vein in his forehead looked ready to pop, his face bright red.

"You!" he screamed, eyes on Booth, and in a second the General had his survival knife out, the blade pressed to Booth's throat, his back against the wall.

Billings didn't seem to know what to do now – in the face of Hartwick's fury, his own seemed to fade.

"Shut the fuck up," Hartwick said through gritted teeth, his face close to Booth's.

"How'd it happen, General?" Booth kept right on, even when he could feel the knife pierce his skin. "How long have you known you'd have to gun down a grieving mother with a baby on the way?"

Hartwick raised the knife, the blade just under Booth's jawbone – _mandible, _he thought, a picture of Bones flashing in front of his eyes. He thought of his throat slashed, his blood soaking into the conference room carpet right alongside Sweets's. He kept his eyes open, staring straight into Hartwick's.

He blinked for just a second – a millionth of a second, more like it, when the gun went off. The shot startled him so much that his head jerked backward, hitting the wall behind him. When his eyes popped open again, the top of Hartwick's head was gone. The General's body dropped to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut, leaving Booth standing there with the other man's blood wet on his face.

He recovered from his shock to see Lincoln standing there, gun still raised, staring at the spot where Hartwick had been.

Billings screamed, but before he could raise the gun or figure out what the hell to do next, Werner was on him. In the confusion, Booth couldn't tell who was winning and who was losing – normally, Werner didn't look like someone he'd willingly mess with, but Billings was like a wild thing. All the fury and the loss and the hopelessness made him fight like a rabid animal – nothing to lose, nothing to cling to.

Once he was sure the gun had been knocked clear, Booth went over and grabbed Billings by the back of his sweat-drenched shirt. Billings let an elbow fly, catching Booth in the gut, but there wasn't much else he could do. Booth put him in a sleeper hold, then glanced over at Lincoln. He'd trained the gun loosely on Booth and Werner, but Booth was having a hard time believing he was much of a threat anymore.

Billings was still struggling a little in Booth's arms; Werner was on the floor with blood leaking from his nose, but otherwise he didn't seem any worse for the wear. He got to his feet, and they all just stood there. Dazed.

Alyce was the one who came to first. She walked over to Sheriff Lincoln without a trace of fear, something sad in her eyes, and took the gun away.

The Sheriff didn't fight her for it.

"They took everything we had," he said to Alyce. Low, kind of pleading. He didn't seem anything like the man Booth had met that first night in Kentucky. "I fought for this country. Loved everything about it. And they sent us out there that day, and… We gave up everything that day. And they _lied. _They killed my daughter. What the hell's a man s'posed to do with that?"

Billings stopped fighting in Booth's arms. Now, he just stood there – slack, spent. Booth's chest rose and fell. He looked to Werner, waiting for the man to say something. To make it right. This wasn't the country Booth knew; this wasn't the job he wanted. Werner lowered his eyes and looked at the floor.

After a second, Lincoln looked up like something had just occurred to him. He ignored Werner, looking instead at Booth.

"You should go," he said. He'd gone quiet again. "There's a bomb set to go off after the press conference."

Booth looked at the clock. It was 1:12. The news crew had never shown up – which was understandable, considering how the phone call with Bones had ended.

"How long after the press conference?" he asked. He tried to keep his voice steady.

"He wanted the live feed so it would be interrupted with the blast – he wanted to take out the news crew the same time the Hoover went down," Lincoln said. "At quarter past one, it'll go off. I was the one who set it."

"Then you can deactivate the thing," Booth said immediately.

Lincoln shook his head. His jaw was set.

"No. No, I can't do that. I won't do that."

* * *

Booth was on his cell racing down six flights to the ground level with Alyce and Werner leading the charge, Billings in front of Booth, Lincoln behind him. At least, he hoped to hell that Lincoln was behind him.

"There's a bomb," Booth shouted into the phone. "We're on our way out, but you need to clear the perimeter – repeat, there is a bomb in the building."

Billings stopped running around the second floor and Booth had to drag him, but the man wouldn't budge. Instead, he collapsed on the stairwell, his eyes dead. Booth thought of everything he'd lost, and knew there was no way he could compete with that. He turned to see Lincoln standing there, not moving either, and he grabbed the Sheriff's arm.

"You don't have to die here," Booth said. "Maylene, your sons… Don't do this to them."

An argument was brewing in Lincoln's eyes, but he seemed to come to enough to realize there wasn't time for that. They left Billings sitting in the Hoover stairwell, his hands in his lap, a blank expression on his face.

And they ran.

They were ten yards away when the explosion ripped through the J. Edgar Hoover Building, throwing them another twenty beyond that. Booth landed on the pavement and lay there listening to breaking glass and people's screams, and he closed his eyes.

He didn't get up.

* * *

Booth came to in a hospital bed with something heavy pinning him down. He opened his eyes to find Bones there – her arms around him, her cheek pressed to his chest. He tried moving – lifting arms and legs, flexing ankles and elbows. He was sore, but he didn't see any bandages or casts.

He ran his hand over Bones's hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. She woke – he watched the way her body changed when she came to, slowly figuring out where she was and what was going on. She sat up and the second their eyes met, hers filled with tears.

"Do I look that bad?" he joked.

She started to cry. For a second, he was afraid that maybe he _did _look that bad, but then her arms were around his neck and she was hanging on like she'd never let go, her tears cool and wet on his neck.

"I'm okay," he mumbled into her ear, smoothing her hair, rocking her the way he used to do with Parker when he was little. "It's all right, Bones. We're okay."

She nodded, and finally pulled away from him. He brushed the moisture from her cheeks.

"We've gotta stop closing our cases this way, Bones," he said.

Bones laughed, brushing at her tears, half-crying at the same time. And it was the best damned sound he'd ever heard.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, they picked up Dosha from Angela and Hodgins and returned to Brennan's apartment. Booth had a few scrapes and would be sore for a while, but otherwise he'd escaped pretty much intact.

Sweets hadn't been so lucky.

The past twenty-four hours had been touch and go while the psychologist was in emergency surgery, trying to repair things that Bones knew all about but that just sounded scary as hell to Booth. Perforated intestine, resected bowel, colostomy… They were words Booth prayed he'd never have to hear in the same sentence as his own name, and it killed him to think of Sweets – young, goofy, annoyingly devoted Sweets – having to deal with it.

In the apartment, Bones started putting away the dishes in her dishwasher. Which, considering the state of the rest of the place, seemed a little like mowing the lawn after a hurricane.

"Hey – Bones," he finally said, catching her by the shoulder when she cruised past with a couple of coffee mugs.

She'd been quiet since her breakdown in his hospital room, and he'd let her have that time to recover. Get back to herself, however she needed to do that. But now, it was starting to feel more like he was avoiding talking than that he was being respectful, and there were questions he knew they'd need to talk about.

She put away the coffee mugs and came back to him. He put his arms around her, his hands resting at the small of her back – at that spot he used to claim, before she'd allowed him access to anything else.

"Have you heard anything from TJ?" he asked. It felt like a lot was riding on the answer, all of a sudden.

Bones rested her head on his shoulder. Wrapped her arms around him.

"He's all right," she said. It was a whisper. "I called Jamie and told her where to find him. She went to the cabin and brought him back. He's all right," she said again.

She held him closer – too close, actually, since he had bruised ribs and scrapes from stem to stern, but he didn't say anything. She was crying again. This time, the tears felt like they came from a place he couldn't reach – a place that was distant and broken, and he didn't know how to fix them.

"I still have to go back," she said.

Her words were warm and moist on his neck. He thought of what Sweets had said to him in that conference room – when the kid had been on the edge of something, and Booth wasn't sure he'd come out of it.

_She's fighting a war, but it's not the one you think it is._

Booth nodded. He smoothed her hair and kissed her temple, and wondered at how a woman as strong as Temperance Brennan could seem so breakable sometimes.

"I know, Bones," he said. "But you're not going alone this time."

* * *

They were in bed that night by six, in an apartment that seemed to Booth like it had fallen in around their ears. Bones was still quiet, but he didn't really mind this time – it didn't really feel like she wasn't telling him something, just like neither of them had any words left after the past few days. D.C. had pretty much shut down after the Hoover fell; there were news reports about terrorist plots and employees that had gone postal, but so far Werner hadn't come out with an official statement about what happened.

Booth wondered if the truth would ever come out. The thought that it wouldn't – that the government he loved, the country he'd give his life for, still refused to admit its past mistakes – made him ache in a way that didn't have a thing to do with the explosion.

They lay in bed with Bones's head on his chest, his arm around her. She turned and kissed his shoulder. He had scratches and scrapes and bruises and road rash, and it seemed for a minute there like she was mapping out every one of his scars. Cataloguing them, maybe.

"What are you thinking about, Bones?" he asked.

She looked him in the eye in that way she did – that easy, unflinching way that made him feel one-hundred-and-twenty percent sure that she could never tell him a lie. At least, not well.

"I'm thinking about going back to Oregon," she said.

He nodded. Her chin was on his chest. Her hands found their way under his t-shirt, and drifted over his stomach. He smoothed the hair back from her forehead.

"I don't know why I can't let go of it," she said.

For the first time since the explosion the day before, she didn't seem like she was on the brink of tears. Her forehead was wrinkled the way it got when she was working on some bone-problem in the lab. She looked at him with a question in her eyes.

"I don't know either, Bones," he admitted. He wasn't sure how much to say. Or how to say it. "There's something there, though… These last few months, I've seen what that night did to you. So, maybe the first step to letting that go will be going back there."

"That's what Sweets said," she told him.

She looked guilty when she said it. Maybe before, Booth would have been pissed about it – that she'd gone to somebody else, but hadn't told him just how deep this thing ran. Now, all things considered, it seemed like a pretty stupid thing to get pissed about.

"What else did Sweets say?"

She ran her nails in a light circle around his belly button – it was almost ticklish, but more a turn-on… He felt himself getting hard, but he didn't move.

"I only talked to him the once – when I asked him about the dreams. And the panic attacks. He said…" She thought about it some more, like she was trying to remember how he put it so she didn't get it wrong. "Sweets said that I had been in worse situations over the years, than what happened on the mountain that night. And he was right – there were incidents with my foster families, things that happened on the job, identifying remains in warring nations… Running from Mickey and Philip Taylor was not the worst thing I've ever experienced."

Booth nodded. He'd thought the same thing himself, more than once. It had been hell on her, yeah, but… Well, he'd seen her scars. Heard a few of her stories, but he was sure that wasn't all of them by a long shot.

"So, why does he think it's been so hard to get over Oregon?" he asked. His stomach knotted. For some reason, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

She shook her head, a quick shine of moisture in her eyes now. "He didn't say," she whispered, like she was telling him a secret.

Booth pulled her up to him. His hand drifted under her shirt, feeling the soft, smooth skin of her back.

"We'll figure it out, Bones."

He kissed her mouth and her jaw and the spot behind her ear that always made her crazy, pushing her shirt up higher. They separated just long enough for her to get the shirt over her head and for Booth to follow suit with his own, and then she came back to him. She twisted in his arms and his hands drifted over the muscles in her back and when he closed his eyes it made him think of the way fish swim upstream, fluid and strong and beautiful.

He pushed her pajama bottoms and her underpants down over her long legs and she straddled him, naked, with Booth still in his boxer shorts, straining against the fabric, feeling her warm and wet through the cotton. It reminded him of high school – of grinding against girls who wouldn't go any further, and he was grateful as hell he wasn't that guy anymore and Bones wasn't one of those girls right now.

She teased him a little, her eyes closed, mouth opening in a little breathless gasp when he stilled her hips and thrust up, his cock pressed to her heat, and she reached down and stroked him through the cotton until he was panting.

"Bones – Jesus, I need…"

She sat up and looked at him. There was a teasing little light in her eyes that he could have wept to see, after the intensity of the past week. She was playing with him.

"What?" she asked.

"I need you," he managed.

She kept stroking, and leaned down with her tits crushed to his chest and her breath hot in his ear.

"Tell me what you want," she whispered.

"I want you, Bones," he said, trying to find some piece of his brain that still worked while she ran her hand up and down his cock, the cotton rough against the sensitive skin.

She took her hand away. Her tongue found his ear, pressing in at exactly the right spot, 'til he pressed his hips up looking for some relief.

"Tell me what you want," she said again, a little rougher now.

"I want to fuck you," he finally said. The charge in her eyes sent a shock of electricity through him. Bones liked to talk – he knew it. He just didn't know how much she liked _him _to talk. He smiled, just a little. "I want to bury myself so deep that everything else disappears – I want to feel you tight and wet around me, and I want to look in your eyes when you cum and know that nobody else gets to touch you this way, nobody else gets to hear their name on your lips …"

Her eyes had gone wide, her pupils big and dark as the night sky. He flipped them both so that he was on top, pushing his boxers down over his ass with one hand while he balanced on the other. Bones helped him get rid of his shorts and then he was between her legs, sinking into her, and her body arched beneath him and her nails scraped down his back and she came, fast, before he'd even set a rhythm. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and she tightened and called out his name and it was so fast that he held back – couldn't help but hold back, watching her face change, the way her teeth bit into her lip, the way her body moved beneath him.

He stopped moving when she was done, still inside her. Still hard as a rock, ready to explode. He kissed the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck.

"I love you," he said.

She pulled back so she could look at him. Ran her hands through his hair. Being with her felt more naked than he'd ever been – this dance they did, this way of loving someone so much that sometimes it felt like nothing at all, and sometimes, like now, it felt like life or death.

She squeezed him, working him while he was still inside her, neither of them moving. His eyes sank shut.

"You feel so good," he said.

"So do you."

He bowed his head to rain kisses along her collarbone, and she moved her hips beneath him. They went slower now; Booth felt the gravity of everything they'd been through and everything still to come, settle on his shoulders. He looked at Bones to see if she felt it, and saw a tear slip down her cheek.

Before he could say something, she arched up and kissed him, setting a more frantic pace now. Her hands moved down to his ass, her legs climbing higher until he was lost to everything but their rhythm and the feel of his body melding with hers, like the whole universe had just fallen away. His forehead fell to her shoulder and his body felt like a spring, coiled, moving harder and deeper while she met him thrust for thrust and this time when she went over, he couldn't help but follow.

* * *

Afterward, Brennan put her T-shirt back on and Booth climbed back into his boxers, and they ate leftovers from Wong-Foos under the covers with Dosha lying at the foot of the bed, her muzzle resting on her paws, waiting patiently for her fair share.

"You shouldn't feed her Chinese food – she already has issues with digestion," Bones said.

Booth gave the collie a bite of his eggroll. "She's skinny as a rail, Bones," he said. "You really think she's gonna gain weight with that crappy kibble Maylene sent up?"

"I've done some research," she said. He caught a glimpse of Bones's creamy thigh when the sheet shifted, and felt a stir that a man his age after a week he'd had shouldn't really be able to feel. He didn't know whether that said more about him or Bones.

"What kind of research?" He cut a dumpling into thirds, and fed one piece to Bones and one to Dosha, then popped the last of it in his mouth.

"Food research. I think I'm going to put Dosha on a raw diet."

Booth just kind of grimaced at that. "Maybe this is a conversation we can save for another time," he said.

Bones agreed, but not before she'd told him in horrifying detail about the crap that they put in regular, run-of-the-mill dog food. By the time she'd finished, Booth had lost his appetite. They returned the leftovers to the fridge. Walked Dosha one more time, where, it turns out, Bones was proven right about that whole don't-feed-Chinese-food-to-a-dog-with-a-bad-stomach theory.

When they got back in bed Booth was happy to see that it was only ten o'clock. They snuggled under the covers tangled up in each other, her back to his front, arms and legs and hands and feet all lined up. Bones took his hand and kissed it as his eyes drifted closed.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He thought about the day ahead of them – the plane ride, the car ride, the cabin in the woods that he didn't want to see.

"I'm here for you, Bones. Whatever happens, baby. I'm here."

They slept.

* * *

On Christmas day, Booth and Brennan flew into PDX and landed at just after two in the afternoon. She knew that they should go see TJ, but Brennan found once they touched ground that she couldn't seem to summon the energy. She'd slept well the night before – in point of fact, she'd slept better than she could remember sleeping in months. It was probably the exhaustion, but she attributed at least some of it to the night she and Booth had spent together.

By any standard, she believed it had been a perfect night. Good sex, good food, good conversation. At the memory of some of that conversation, she felt a flush of pleasure… One of the things she'd found most exciting about her relationship with Booth was his ability to surprise her. The look in his eye, the words on his lips, and the way her body had responded to the combination last night… That had definitely been a very good surprise.

Booth glanced over at her. He was driving, by mutual agreement; the flashbacks she had experienced in the recent past when visiting crime scenes hardly made her a wise choice as designated driver. Particularly given their destination. So, Booth was at the wheel. They were driving up into the mountains. It was a clear day – Brennan found it ironic that she'd seen more snow in D.C. this year than she was likely to see in the Pacific Cascades. Well… At least falling snow. The snow on the ground was far more plentiful here than it was back home.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded. He'd asked the question frequently since they began. The day had left her anxious and strained – uncertain where any of it was leading, or what she was likely to learn by the time they were through. She'd told him this morning that they should just forget it:

_We could go somewhere pleasant – Hawaii. The Yucatan. Going to Oregon now is absurd. TJ is fine. _

TJ wasn't fine, she knew. But he also wasn't going to kill himself – at least, not with Jamie and the rest of his friends posted on constant watch, and a host of trained professionals on call to evaluate his moods.

_Yeah, Bones – the Yucatan would make sense if we were actually going to Oregon for TJ. _

He hadn't said more. She wondered what he thought of this – whether he thought there was something wrong with her, for this escalating desire to return to a place where she'd nearly died.

"Are you scared?" she asked him. Her voice sounded too vulnerable, when she had been hoping for some semblance of detachment. She waited for him to lie to her, offer some kind of platitude.

"Yeah, Bones," he said instead. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. "Yeah. I'm scared."

An image flashed through her mind: driving with Booth after she'd thought Russ was dead, years ago.

_I wish you'd stop letting me hug you when I'm scared. _

_Hey – I get scared, and I'll hug you. _

The memory brought tears to her eyes at the same time that it made her smile.

"What are you scared of?" she asked.

He glanced at her again. She estimated that they were another hour or so from the mountain road leading up to Philip Taylor's cabin. It had been difficult to gauge the first time, since she'd been bound and gagged and locked in a trunk. The concept of time was quite elusive in such circumstances, in her experience.

He took a breath and let it out slowly. "I'm scared that you aren't ready for this," he said. It made her uneasy to hear him make such an admission. "Or that I'm not…"

"Are you scared of what we'll learn?" she asked.

His hand tightened around hers, and she realized that – like her – that was a very real fear.

"Yeah, Bones. I am."

"Perhaps we shouldn't go, then," she said. Her voice broke, fresh tears falling. She brushed them away in frustration.

"We don't have to go if you don't think you can handle it, Bones," he said.

She thought about this for a few moments. They hit a rut in the road, and her heart skipped in her chest. She was back to that day last summer – locked inside the trunk. Bound, nauseas. Terrified.

Booth reached across the seat and took her hand again.

"Breathe, Bones. Just breathe," Booth instructed her.

She focused on her breath: deep inhale through the nose; long, slow exhale through the mouth. Her heart slowed to an acceptable rate, but she felt little relief.

"We can turn back, Bones," he said. "Just say the word." For the first time, she heard real anxiety in his voice.

She shook her head. "Keep driving."

The road up to Dr. Taylor's secluded mountain cabin was slick with ice, evergreens weighted down with freshly fallen snow. The closer they got to the cabin, the more difficult Brennan found it to 'just breathe,' as Booth had put it. Despite the fact that this night bore no resemblance whatsoever to that night in August when she'd been running for her life, she couldn't seem to stop reliving it.

"Talk to me, Bones," Booth said. "Just tell me what you're thinking."

They'd been holding hands, but now she pulled hers away. It was tempting to tell him she was fine, wasn't thinking anything, but wasn't that exactly what she'd been so angry with Booth about recently? How could she expect him to trust her, to let her in, if she continually refused to do the same?

"I hate closed spaces," she finally said.

He glanced at her, then back at the road. "I do, too," he admitted, surprising her. "I don't know how you made it, locked in the trunk that night."

Her eyes were drawn to a shadow to her right, the beat of wings overhead. The first glimpse made her heart hammer against her ribs, until she realized that it was just an owl flying alongside the car.

"I thought of you," she said simply, her eyes still fixed on the world outside. "Of Russ, and my father, and Parker and Hodgins and Angela… There were reasons to survive. I'd never had so many reasons to survive."

They were silent for several minutes. Booth hit a slick of ice and lost control of the Jeep for a moment; it careened toward the trees, Brennan's hands tight on the dashboard. She'd crashed the car – she'd forgotten that. Crashed the car and hit her head, lay there bloodied waiting for the soldiers…

Her breath caught halfway up her chest. She was paralyzed. She gripped the dashboard harder, until her knuckles were white and her fingers cramped.

"Bones?" Booth asked. He'd corrected the Jeep mid-skid, and they were safely on the road again. Everything was fine.

Except it wasn't.

Blood matted the left side of her head. She could remember the dizziness, the nausea. The sound of men shouting in the distance, the oppressive heat of the rainforest weighing her down.

That was wrong, though – she knew that was wrong.

Booth pulled off to the side of the road.

"Hey – Bones." He turned toward her in the car and took her hands. "I need you to talk to me. Do you want to go back?"

She shook her head, fast, her hair whipping back and forth with the motion. Her breath was still coming hard.

"Keep going," she said.

"Not if you shut me out, Bones. You're not doing this alone. You've gotta keep talkin' to me."

"Keep going," she repeated.

He obeyed, though clearly with great reluctance. When she tried to take her hand back, he wouldn't let go.

A few minutes later, the images faded. They were on a snowy road in Washington, she reminded herself. Safe.

"You with me again, Bones?" Booth asked her.

She nodded. "I'm here."

"You sure you don't want to go back? We could work on this at home… Build up to it."

"I need to do this," she said. Booth didn't appear surprised at her words. He continued to drive.

There was silence between them as they drew nearer to their destination. Several times, Brennan opened her mouth to begin telling him what she was feeling, what she recalled of the night here in August. What it had been like, running from Mickey and Dr. Taylor.

When she finally spoke, though, she was surprised to find that wasn't the story she felt compelled to tell.

"When I was in Guatemala several years ago, three soldiers – guerrillas for the resistance, actually – found me late one night. I was working. I'd been warned not to stay at the site without guards, but…" Booth turned to look at her. In the dim light cast by the dashboard, she was surprised to see that he didn't appear confused at her apparent non sequitur.

"There was a child that I was trying to identify – a young girl. I just wanted to finish with her remains, to care for her properly, before I left."

Booth didn't say anything, but she could sense how focused he was on her words. She rarely told stories of her past, she knew. They were very similar in that way.

"I'd only been on a few operations like it – it seemed as though everyone was paranoid, their fear out of proportion with the degree of danger I perceived. I was so… young. Stupid, really. Not intellectually, of course, but…"

"Yeah, Bones," Booth said. "I got it."

Of course he did. She wished for a moment that she hadn't started this story.

There were so many other stories she could tell. Much better stories than this one.

Her mouth was dry. She swallowed hard, trying to find some moisture.

"One of the soldiers was bigger than the others. Particularly considering the Guatemalan genetic predisposition for shorter stature, he was a very large man."

Outside, the night was clear. When she'd been here last, it had been raining. She had been in a trunk, preparing to die.

This was not last time, she reminded herself. Her body, however, could not seem to distinguish between then and now.

"Bones?" Booth prompted her.

She looked up. "It was raining," she said.

"When you were here last?" he asked uncertainly.

"No. I mean – yes, it was raining then, as well. But… In Guatemala. The night I was taken. He said – the big man. Hector," she said. She rolled the _r, _the way his friends had. "Hector said, 'Ejecuta ahora, conejito. Tal vez usted no va a morir esta noche.' You run now, little rabbit," she translated, for Booth. "Maybe you will not die tonight."

Booth sucked in air tightly. He had let go of her hand, returning his tight grip on the steering wheel. She was glad, just then, not to be touched, and equally glad that Booth understood this about her.

"I ran," she said. "I was unfamiliar with the terrain, however, and I fell and bruised my patella, badly – I still have problems with it at times. I could hear them coming for me. I circled back around and I was able to take their truck, but there was a downpour and the roads were washed out. I lost control and ended up in a ditch with a deep scalp laceration."

Booth stopped the Jeep then. She thought it was because of the story; she was about to tell him to keep driving, she was fine, when she realized that the snowplow hadn't gotten any farther – the rest of the road was impenetrable by vehicle. If she wanted to continue to the cabin, they would have to hike up the mountain. Booth put the car in park, but he kept the engine running.

"We should go," Brennan said.

Booth didn't move. "Finish your story, Bones. Please."

When she looked at him, she was surprised to see tears in his eyes. She looked away. It seemed as though he'd sensed what she was about to tell him, long before she'd intended to speak the words aloud.

"They got closer – I could hear them. But I was disoriented and ran the wrong way," she continued. "I should have been more cognizant of my surroundings, but it was dark, and I was injured, and…" She fell off, not certain where to go next.

"And you were scared," Booth said.

She laughed shortly – a twisted, bitter laugh that sounded ugly to her ears. _When I'm scared, I'll hug you. _

"And I was scared," she agreed. "Still, I managed to elude them for most of the night. The sun was coming up and I was in a tree – high up, so I thought I would be safe. But Hector spotted me."

Booth's body was turned toward her, his beautiful brown eyes taking in her every movement. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, for some reason.

"I heard Hector shout to the others, 'He encontrado nuestro conejito. Ahora, que comemos.' I found our little rabbit." She paused, and wet her lips before continuing. "Now, we eat." The last words came out so low she wondered if Booth even heard them.

"I stayed in the tree, even when he began shooting. I'd lost a great deal of blood already from the head wound, and then he grazed my scapula and I had to let go." Booth had touched that scar before; he had even asked her about it. She had never told him.

She looked out the Jeep window. The woods were pure white, unblemished by footprints or tire tracks. If she believed in such flights of fancy, she could imagine that she and Booth were the last people on the planet.

"It's beautiful here, isn't it?" she said suddenly. "I love winter. Everything feels different. I can't explain it logically, but it feels… cleaner, somehow."

Booth touched her hand and she started, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

"Temperance," he said. His voice was gentle, but unyielding. "What happened when you fell out of the tree?"

She kept her eyes on the clear white expanse of snow.

"I fought," she said. "I kicked, and bit, and screamed. But there were three of them. And I was so tired by then." She brushed at her eyes, surprised to find tears there. It had been so long ago, she'd thought this memory couldn't touch her any longer.

Booth was also crying. She looked at him in surprise – at how easily his tears fell for her, for something that happened long before she had even known men like Seeley Booth existed.

"He raped me," she said quietly. Without intonation, without histrionics. It felt awful when the words were out, though – she wished she could take it back. Erase the moment. Sweets was a fool to believe these types of admissions could be cathartic.

"He kept me with him for most of that morning. I thought I would die." She considered that for a moment, her gaze once more on the world outside their window. "I wanted to die, afterward."

Booth took her hand. "But you didn't die."

She shook her head, brushing ineffectually at her tears. "No – I got away. We'd stopped for water. I waited until I was alone with the smallest of the three men – Wizard, they called him. _Asistente. _I got his gun away from him."

_Got his gun away. _In her mind, she recalled the look in the man's eyes when she had whispered through swollen, bloodied lips, _I want a real man like you – not Hector. He's not looking – why not take your turn?_

"I took his gun, and I got away."

Booth ran his hand over her hair, then cupped her cheek in his palm – so delicately, as though she might break. His hand was shaking.

"Bones, did you tell anybody this?"

She shook her head fiercely. "It wasn't like in America – there would have been no trial. I'd taken care of Hector, and I knew I wouldn't see the others again. There was a nurse who attended to me… A Guatemalan woman who asked no questions. I told the others I'd gotten dysentery, and packed my things and left before anyone else could see my injuries. No one needed to know what I'd done."

Booth moved closer to her slowly, carefully, as though he might frighten her.

"Listen to me, okay?"

She nodded, though her attention was once more on the darkness outside. He touched her chin, guiding it until their eyes met. Her lip trembled as she fought to remain in control.

"You didn't _do _anything, Temperance." He held her face captive, both hands on her cheeks, forcing her to maintain their gaze. "You worked late… You took a wrong turn. You were young, and scared, and they were fucking monsters who deserved whatever they got."

They sat that way for another few minutes of silence. Booth took her hands in his own, his fingers tracing the network of delicate bones beneath her skin.

"So, you just… Did you _ever_ tell anyone about this, Bones?"

"I told you – there was no point."

For a moment, he looked angry – it was an emotion that she would welcome just then, she realized. She ached for a fight. To shout at him, push him away. Get out of the car and vanish into the night. When he spoke, however, his voice was still soft.

"No point except ten years after the fact, this whole thing with Doc Taylor and my buddy Mickey has been triggering the mother of all flashbacks for the past four months."

She looked at him blankly. He laughed – actually laughed, a sad, despairing, heartbroken sound that she hated.

"You don't see some similarities, Bones?" he asked. "You stole the car and crashed it to get away from Mickey. Ran through the rain for hours, terrified for your life… You told me that when Mickey found you, you were in a tree, right? The same as when you were in Guatemala."

Understanding dawned. "There are some parallels," she admitted. "So, you're suggesting that the reason I've been experiencing these panic attacks and flashbacks isn't because of what happened this summer, but because…"

"Because you lived through the ninth circle of Hell, Bones, and you never dealt with it." He ran a hand through her hair and let out a shaky breath, his eyes still wet with unshed tears. "You can't just pretend these things didn't happen, baby. I wish to God you could."

She didn't know what to say to that. The night was dark and still and cold outside their window. It seemed like they had come a very long way for this.

"I'd like to go home now," she said quietly.

Booth nodded. He turned the Jeep around and then, once they were back on their way, reached for her hand again. She let him take it, and was grateful for his warmth even though she didn't feel as though that warmth could touch her. She felt… Frozen. Underwater.

_The truth shall set you free._ How many times had she heard that?

She didn't believe it, though. Not now. She twisted around in her seat to try and catch a glimpse of whatever they were leaving behind. There was nothing, though – black night and a reflection of brake lights against the snow, the road behind an abyss she was certain they could not escape.

And still, Booth held tight to her hand.

And still, they drove on.

_TBC_

_

* * *

__I told you there was some angst. The last piece will be up on Thursday. Thanks as always to everyone for reading, and for leaving such kind, encouraging feedback. I can't tell you how much it's appreciated. - Jen__  
_


	12. Chapter Eleven

_Okay... The final piece. Except - well, it turns out that it's not quite the final piece, because the **final **final piece needs an unexpected polishing. So, the **final **final piece will be up Sunday evening. But this should answer the last pesky questions you might have had about this very lengthy fic, and we'll tie it all up in a pretty (though slightly angsty) bow tomorrow. Enjoy!_

* * *

Between rocky times as a kid with his old man, life in the Rangers, and fighting to get a few hours with Parker every year, Booth had had his share of crappy Christmases. This one definitely took the cake, though.

By the time he and Bones drove down off the mountain and were back somewhere near civilization, Christmas day was almost done. Bones was pretending to be asleep – he could tell because, even though her eyes were closed, her body was still tense, hands clenched the way they'd been when she started her story.

Her story.

Christ.

The Pacific Northwest was pretty this time of year – grey and snowy, the roads empty on Christmas night. Booth wasn't paying much attention to any of it, though. Mostly, he just saw Bones, her story just playing back over and over again while he drove.

_He raped me…K__ept me with him for most of that morning… I'd taken care of Hector. _

He couldn't get the words out of his head. Booth hadn't known what the hell to say when she was telling it. Or do, for that matter. He couldn't seem to do a damned thing to stop his own tears, and the fact that Temperance told the whole thing mostly dry-eyed, her voice dead, only made it that much worse.

How did a person just live with that all these years, and never let it get to her? And if she'd managed to bottle it up all this time, now that it was finally out in the open… What would that do? He thought again of Sweets' words:

_She's fighting a war, but it's not the one you think it is. _

Had Sweets known? Guessed, somehow? And if he had, why the hell hadn't he said something sooner?

Booth glanced at the clock on the dash. It was twenty past eleven. Christmas lights were up all over the place. They usually brought out the best in him, but tonight they just seemed like some weird joke – dress it up however you wanted, the world was still a pretty dark fucking place.

He drove past a big carved sign welcoming them to Bellingham, Washington, and then went another few miles before he found a strip of motels. He chose the closest one and pulled into the lot. It was raining outside – a light drizzle that made the pavement shine and the Christmas lights blur.

Bones opened her eyes as soon as he stopped the car. She didn't bother pretending she was just waking up.

"Where are we?"

"Motel," Booth said. "I'm beat – we can make the rest of the drive in the morning. Our flight's not 'til tomorrow night. We'll have plenty of time."

She nodded. For a second he thought she might fight him on it, but instead she got out of the Jeep and got their stuff from the back.

Their room was the last one on the end of a block of dingy units, an ice machine just outside the door. Bones stood shivering a couple of feet away from him while he wrestled with the lock. Once inside, he switched on lights while she dumped their stuff on one of two double beds.

"You hungry?" he asked.

She looked at him like the thought hadn't even occurred to her.

"Not particularly. You should order something, though."

The grinding in his stomach convinced him to take her advice. She went to the window and peeked past the ugly drapes into the parking lot. Booth watched her from a few feet that felt like a hundred miles, before he finally got up the guts to go to her. He put his arms around her waist, but pulled away fast when she flinched.

"I'm sorry," he said "I didn't – "

She shook her head. When she turned to look at him, all the distance was gone – that detachment she'd obviously worked so hard to get to while she was telling her story had disappeared. She was shaking, just a little. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Bones," he said. The word came out sounding broken.

"I'm going to shower," she said, looking away before he could see her tears start to fall.

She pushed past him before he could say a word, bound for the bathroom. He stood there, paralyzed. He let her go.

So, on Christmas night in a crappy motel in Washington state, Booth ordered a pizza while Bones went in the bathroom to try to scrub away a memory that Booth knew damned well wasn't going to disappear with a simple fuckin' shower.

Half an hour passed. The pizza arrived; Booth managed to eat a slice before he pushed the box away and went to the bathroom door. He knocked lightly.

"Hey, Bones… You okay in there?"

She didn't answer for a couple seconds. When she finally did with a simple, "I'm fine – I'll be out in a few minutes," it wasn't the words so much as the way she said it that made the knot tighten in his gut.

He tried the doorknob.

It was locked.

"Bones, come on out. Or at least let me in."

She didn't say anything this time. He pressed his ear to the door… Listened to water fall and, beneath that, nothing at all. He took a breath and let it out nice and slow, and then with a subtle little move he'd perfected years ago, he kicked the door just right… It popped open without splintering, though the lock would need to be replaced. That wasn't really his biggest concern at the moment, though.

Right this second, in fact, the last thing in the world he was thinking about was a broken lock.

He pushed the shower curtain back to find Bones sitting with her knees up close to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. The water had long since gone to cold – he reached in without worrying about getting wet himself, and turned off the spray. Her lips had turned blue. She sat there shivering and naked, staring straight ahead, her eyes still dry.

"I'm sorry – I used up all the hot water," she said, through chattering teeth.

"That's all right, Bones."

Her jaw tightened; she wouldn't meet his gaze. He grabbed a towel and knelt by the tub. Brushed the sopping wet hair away from her face.

"It's not all right," she said. Her voice cracked, but she got hold of herself before she broke down. She didn't look at him, her jaw still tensed while she tried to keep control. "I don't think it's all right at all. I think I've ruined everything."

Bones might not shed a tear, but Booth was pretty sure he was about to lose it again himself. Instead, he got the bathrobe Bones had hung on the door and put it around her shoulders. He took her hand and pulled her up, and he kept holding on while she stepped over the side of the tub. Still, she didn't look at him.

Once she was out of the tub, Bones didn't seem to know what to do next – which was maybe why she'd stayed in there so damned long. She left the bathroom and wandered around the rest of the motel room in the bathrobe, hair still dripping, teeth still chattering. She went back to looking out that same picture window she'd been looking out before she took the shower.

Booth went over and stood maybe six inches back. Not touching her. Wanting to – wanting more than anything to take her in his arms, but he didn't know how to do that. Where to start. He cleared his throat.

"You didn't ruin anything, Bones." It came out a whisper. Her back was to him; he could see the way her body tensed when he said the words. "Do you hear me? Nothing's ruined."

He touched her shoulder. Again, just like before, she jumped at the contact. This time, he didn't back away.

"Look at me, Temperance."

A couple of seconds passed, where neither of them moved. Then, finally, she turned around. Her eyes shifted, locking on pretty much everything in the room but his face. Booth cupped her cheek. When she closed her eyes, the first tear appeared. Her skin was cold to the touch. Her lips quivered.

"You didn't ruin anything," he said again, with more conviction this time. "I'm here, baby. You're gonna get through this, and we're gonna be okay."

He pulled her closer, surprised at how relieved he was when she let him take her into his arms. It wasn't until she was safe there, his arms around her, her head at his neck, that he felt her let go.

The tears came.

He steered them to an easy chair in the corner, where he sat down and pulled her into his lap. Outside, he could hear the rain coming down on the pavement and the wind lashing against the side of the building. In the next room, someone was watching A Christmas Carol – Booth could hear Jacob Marley, distorted through the walls. He sat in the easy chair whispering into Bones's ear, rocking her the way he used to rock Parker after a bad dream.

"It doesn't feel like I'm going to be okay," Bones finally said, sniffling into his neck. The front of Booth's shirt was wet from her tears, and he'd lost the feeling in his legs a good ten minutes ago. Still, he wouldn't have moved on a dare.

"I know, baby." He kissed her cheek, her temple, her forehead. "Hey – Bones," he said. "Look at me."

She let him guide her face up, 'til they were eye to eye. Some color had come back to her cheeks, but tears still fell. He hadn't even known somebody like Bones would have that many tears.

"This stuff that you told me tonight…" His eyes watered; he brushed away his own tears, fast. "What happened to you that night _isn't _okay, Temperance. What that guy did to you… You finally talking about it? I think maybe it's gonna bring up some things that will make it hard to feel okay for a while."

She tensed in his arms, something dark and terrified flashing in her pretty blue eyes.

"I shouldn't have said anything," she said.

He tightened his arms around her before she could get up and push him away again. "I'm glad that you did, though, Bones. This stuff…" He swallowed hard, trying to keep all his own shit out of the way so he could finish this. "You can handle this. _We _can handle it. I'm not going anywhere."

Another tear leaked out. He pressed his hand to the back of her head and guided her back to his shoulder. They stayed that way until she kissed his neck and pulled back, more in control now.

"We should go to bed," she said.

He tried not to look too relieved. "You sure?"

She didn't look that sure, but she nodded. They got up. Booth stretched a little, until he'd gotten the circulation going again, and they both got ready for bed in silence.

That night, they lay in bed facing each other, close but not quite touching. Bones reached out and touched his jaw, ran her fingertip over the lines of his face like she was trying to memorize every detail. He tucked her hair behind her ear and looked in her bottomless blue eyes.

"I love you," he said.

She nodded. "I know." She bit her lip and closed her eyes. "I'm very glad that you do." She took his hand and kissed his knuckles, but she didn't move any closer.

Booth put his arm over her shoulder, and felt her tense up. He pulled away.

"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice sounded sad – but more than sad, he could hear fear in there. "I don't know why…"

"It doesn't matter, Bones. We'll take it slow. Close your eyes. Go to sleep. I'm right here."

He watched her eyes drift shut, felt her body relax just a few inches from his. They held hands, but Booth didn't try to get any closer again. For a long time, he lay there in the darkness of a strange room, watching over her. Waiting for dreams he knew would come.

Booth didn't sleep much that night.

* * *

The next day dawned like God hadn't even invented rain, and it sure as hell didn't feel like the day after Christmas. The sun was shining, the air felt warm and tasted clean. Bones still wasn't quite herself, though, so it was hard to believe all was exactly right with the world. She'd woken after a dream at around five that morning – not long after Booth had just finally fallen to sleep – with her breath coming hard and her whole body clenched like a fist. She wouldn't let him near her. When she'd finally gotten back to sleep at around six, Booth had been too freaked out about accidentally brushing up against her in his sleep and setting her off again, to even think about trying to catch a few more Zs himself.

He got up and took a shower and by the time he was out of the bathroom, Bones was up, packed, and ready to go. In the light of day, he wasn't sure what to say to her. Usually when he didn't know what to say to Bones, he could go with a touch or a hug, wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. Now, he didn't know what the hell to do.

They were back in the Jeep and on the road before either of them mentioned anything that had happened the night before, and it was actually Bones who brought it up.

"Thank you for… everything, last night."

He glanced at her, trying to figure out from her expression where she was at and how she was doing.

"You don't have to thank me, Bones. I'm just glad I could be there for you, in whatever way I was."

There was silence for another few seconds. He bit his lip. Glanced her way again.

"So, are you, y'know… Okay?"

She thought about the question for a lot longer than she should have had to, if she actually was okay.

"I think so. The… I am sorry about the sex. Or – well, the lack of sex. I'm not certain why something that happened years ago – something I've dealt with quite well up to this point – should suddenly impact an area in which I've never had any difficulties in the past."

Booth did his damnedest not to laugh out loud at that one. Or cry. Or maybe both. Instead, he scratched his jaw and let out a long breath before he glanced her way again. They were on Route 5 headed into Seattle, and even on the day after Christmas, traffic was backed up in every direction. Bones looked at him in that way she had, with that annoyed frown and the set jaw, because her genius brain couldn't figure out shit that Booth thought was pretty fuckin' obvious.

"I was actually thinking about that this morning," he said.

She looked away for a second, a vulnerable shine to her eyes, hands fiddling with the fabric of the skirt she wore – a blue one that fell just above her knee, showing off shapely calves and delicate ankles. He loved that skirt.

"You were?" she said.

"Yeah, Bones. Like it or not, I'm pretty sure we're both gonna be giving this whole thing a lot of thought over the next few months. It's not something you can just pretend didn't happen, anymore – that's the down side of telling somebody else."

She didn't argue the point. He worried that he might have come off sounding too harsh, but Bones didn't look like she'd taken offense. If anything, she just looked like she was thinking it all over.

"So, are you ready for what I came up with?" he asked, when she didn't say anything.

"I thought that _was _what you came up with."

"Nah, Bones – that was just the tip of the iceberg." A car ahead of them moved five feet; Booth let up on the brake and they crept forward.

"So… Here's what this is like," he said. He checked to see if she was paying attention. She was.

"Let's say you broke your leg a few years ago, okay?"

"What type of break?" she asked immediately. He actually felt a grin coming on.

"Compound fracture of the medial tibia," he spit right back at her.

Bones eyes widened. "You've clearly researched this theory well," she said, with a hint of a smile.

"I used your laptop while you were in the shower," he admitted. "But I wanted to get this right."

"Technically, the term medial tibia is redundant, as the tibia is situated – " She stopped when she saw the look on his face. "But I'm sure that's not that important in this scenario."

"Pretty much, Bones. Yeah."

She straightened up, and looked at him dead on this time. "All right – so, a few years ago, I had a compound fracture of the tibia. I suppose _how _this happened would be irrelevant."

"You suppose wrong, as a matter of fact, Bones. Actually, yeah… It does matter how it happened. You were out running up these steps one day and you fell, hard, on the edge of one."

She winced. "And that's how I fractured my tibia?"

"That's how you fractured your tibia. And then, what's worse is, _after _you cracked your tibia, a bunch of stuff came up and you never actually got any treatment for this compound fracture of yours."

"But that's impossible – I would have had to get some treatment, or I would have been unable to walk. Infection would have – "

Booth held up his hand in surrender. Jesus, she drove him crazy sometimes. "Okay, okay – I take that back. You did get some treatment, but it was shitty treatment. You got somebody to patch it up, and then the rest of it you just took care of yourself."

"What about removing the cast?" she asked.

"You didn't even have a cast, Bones. You got x-rays straight off the bat, slapped on an ace bandage, and kept right on walking."

"But it healed all right? That seems highly unlikely."

"Well – let's put it this way… You didn't die of some infection afterward, and you can walk okay now."

She thought about this for a few seconds before she nodded. "All right. So, clearly I must have done an admirable job of attending to it myself."

"Not so fast," he said. "Because one day you and me go out running, and we start doing wind sprints up the Capitol steps."

She bit her lip once she figured out where he was going with it. "And I fall?" she asked softly.

"And you fall," he confirmed. "So, you tell me, Bone Doctor… What happens now?"

A few seconds passed while she thought about that. "Well… If I hit it in the same place and had never done anything to ensure that it had healed properly the last time, the break could be much more severe this time. The bone would have been weakened in the previously affected areas, thus making it more vulnerable to…"

She stopped. A crease appeared in the middle of her forehead.

"Do you see what I'm saying, Bones?" he asked.

She looked out the window for a long time, until Booth reached over and took her hand.

"Hey," he said. "Do you understand why these feelings are coming up now?"

"You're saying that those emotions triggered after my night in Washington running from Mickey and Philip Taylor are analogous to what I would have experienced had my injuries in Guatemala been physical, rather than emotional."

"And what's more," he said, "while you're recovering from all these old breaks, you might feel a twinge doing things that never used to bother you at all."

She looked at him blankly. "I don't know what that means."

"Sex, Bones," he said with a sigh. "Me being close to you. Holding you while you're sleeping. They might not be the same as falling down on a set of steps, but they work the same muscles."

She thought about that for a while. "That was actually quite good," she said, after a while. "If Sweets used analogies like that, I might be more receptive to his theories."

"But probably not," Booth said.

She squeezed his hand. Laughed a little. "No," she agreed. "Probably not."

* * *

It was just past noon by the time they got back to Portland. Booth drove them straight to Portland Presbyterian Hospital as soon as they hit town, as they'd both agreed, and they walked the familiar hallways in silence. Bones stopped at the memorial to Dr. Rachel Martin, another victim of the grisly case they'd solved last summer, and they stood there holding hands for a few seconds, neither of them saying anything.

"I got an e-mail from Abby last week," Bones said. Abby was Dr. Martin's daughter – a precocious foster kid like Bones had once been.

"Yeah?" Booth asked, once they were back on their way. "How's she doing?"

"She just got accepted for a very prestigious program abroad. I'd like to… I offered to help her pay tuition for her coursework last summer, but I think I offended her. She shouldn't have to work this hard, though. To cover the financial aspects of her studies, I mean. I wish I could find a way to help her."

Booth thought about that. "She's too much like you," he said.

"We do seem to have similar temperaments. Though I think I was much more reasonable at her age."

Booth just scoffed at that. She stopped walking and looked at him, offended. "C'mon, Bones – I've heard the stories Russ tells. The way you raked him over the coals? I'm not saying he didn't deserve it, but… I'm pretty sure Abby Martin doesn't have a thing on Temperance Brennan at eighteen."

"Well… I just wish I could help her."

"How about an anonymous donation? Or… a scholarship, or something? Get that idiot you pay way too much – Sheldon, right?"

"Selden," she said. Booth just made a face.

"Whatever. The business guy. Get him to set something up for you… Go through her school, just tell them you don't want her to know. She gets the money, doesn't have to know it was you behind it, and it lightens her load just that much so she can keep up with her studies."

"It seems like lying."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well… It is, kind of, Bones. But it's the best I can come up with at the moment."

They'd reached the end of the line – a big, ugly wooden door with a dry-erase board on it and "The Love Shack" written in giant red magic marker letters on it. Booth figured they were in the right place.

"Room 25B," she said, nodding to the numbers on the above the dry erase sign.

"This should be it," he said. She looked nervous. "Did you want me to, y'know… Leave you alone? Maybe it would be better if you went in without me."

He was relieved when she shook her head, without seeming to have to think about it at all. "No. I'd rather you came in with me."

Good. So, that was settled. Bones knocked on the door, then pushed it open when a woman's voice told them to come in.

Booth had to admit, as grim hospital scenes went, this wasn't much of one. Jamie and TJ's buddies Doug and Caleb were all there – Doug in hospital scrubs, Caleb with a guitar in his lap and a drink in his hand, his glasses perched at the end of his nose. Jamie was sitting on the edge of TJ's bed with a coloring book and crayons, and TJ himself – the man of the hour – was propped up with a plastic cup of what Booth assumed was liquor in one hand, and an old book in the other.

The room was filled with flowers and cards and a bunch of silver balloons; the biggest balloon was obviously homemade, and said in flowery, sloping letters, "There's No Cure for Crazy" on the front. Booth didn't really know how to take that.

As soon as they saw Bones, Doug and Caleb were fluttering all over her. Hugs and drink offers and all that other shit that went along with it. Honest to god, Booth, thought, the only thing worse than squints was writers. And at least squints served a fucking purpose.

Jamie came over and gave Booth a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks for coming," she said in his ear. She squeezed his hand. It was only when they were close-up that he saw how beat-up she looked, the worn look in her eyes. Obviously, the past few days hadn't been quite the picnic they were trying to make it look like.

"Glad to see you made it for the party, T," TJ said to Bones. His eyes took on that sad cast when he looked at her, but he kept the smile on his face when he caught Booth's eye. "Thanks for coming, Seeley. It's good to see you."

Booth shrugged. "Yeah, you know… We were in the neighborhood."

"Good to see you, man," Caleb said. He shook Booth's hand, his grip firmer than Booth expected. He was the kind of guy who Booth figured would always look like a student. Until he got a little older, and then he'd probably just start looking like a professor. A little short, a little skinny, thick glasses and crazy hair.

"You want a drink?" Caleb asked. He nodded toward the table with all the flowers on it. On closer inspection, Booth noticed a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bunch of mixers in behind a couple of bouquets of daisies.

"I'm all right," Booth said. "Thanks."

Bones hesitated long enough for Caleb to assume she'd meant yes, and he dashed over to start mixing her a drink.

"This is a record," Caleb said when he handed her the drink. "Two visits in a month. First you're here for that baby shower present, and now this… Life and death, apparently, are the best ways to get you out here."

Bones laughed – kind of a hollow laugh, but a laugh all the same. She took a drink from her red plastic cup, then took a step closer to TJ. "I prefer to stick with scenarios involving life from here on out, if it's all the same to you. And if you promise never to do this again, I'll promise to visit more frequently."

Caleb raised his cup, more serious suddenly. "I'll drink to that. Whaddya say, Teej?"

TJ raised his own cup with a somber nod. "I think I can do that."

Doug excused himself not long after that. Booth took a seat close to the door, Jamie and Caleb on either side of him, while Bones nursed her second rum and Coke in the seat by TJ's bed. It wasn't until Doug was gone that things relaxed… Like everyone had been putting on a face for the rest of the world, but now they didn't need to do that anymore. Bones seemed to notice the change, too.

"So," she said to TJ. "How are you? Really."

"Fine," he said, too fast. Once it was out there, though, TJ's face changed. He softened, just a little. Whatever he'd been through in the past forty-eight hours, Booth was suddenly willing to bet that the writer was a changed man for it.

"I really am," he said, once he saw the doubt on Bones's face. Booth wondered for a second if he should leave the two of them alone. Maybe it was selfishness and maybe it wasn't, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to walk out the door. Right now, he just wanted to stick close to Bones for a while.

"You found out about Philip Taylor and your mother," Bones said.

To Booth's surprise, TJ actually laughed at that. Maybe it was a dark laugh, but it sure as hell wasn't as bad as it could have been, considering the circumstances.

"Yeah," TJ said. "Can you believe it?" He took a breath and let it out, nice and slow. "Admittedly, I could've taken it better initially."

Jamie laughed out loud. Caleb coughed over the words, "Drama queen," and rolled his eyes. TJ got serious; everybody else followed his lead.

"I don't know what I was thinking, going up to the cabin like that. But Jamie came out there with guns blazing, ready to use the jaws of life to pull me out of that fuckin' place…" He sat up straighter. "Of course, by the time she got there, I'd already gone on my little vision quest and decided it was time to pull myself together and get the fuck home, but still…"

"Wait," Booth said, confused now. "You didn't try to, you know…?"

"I was ready to, don't get me wrong," TJ said, before Booth could finish. "I had the note, the booze, the pills. And it was a really eloquent fuckin' note, too. I think I'll use it in my next book. But, I don't know… Something happened up there. I started thinking about everything."

Bones edged a little closer to TJ. Booth suspected she didn't even know she'd done it, but it seemed pretty obvious to him. He felt that old flare of insecurity, but tamped it down the best he could. What it came down to with her and TJ was shared history, Booth decided – even if they hadn't grown up together, it seemed to him that somehow they'd run into the same brick walls as teenagers.

"What changed it for you?" Bones asked the writer. The question came out a little raw – like there was something riding on the answer, for her.

TJ thought about it for a second or two before he answered. "I decided we're better than what we came from," he finally said. Booth felt a lump in his throat at the look on Bones's face when he continued. Like she was taking something from this that Booth couldn't give her, no matter how much he wished he could.

"Whatever shit we've been through," TJ went on, "It doesn't matter who or what we came from, everything that came before now… The best we can do is take all of it, wring whatever disgusting truth we can get from it, and then… Move on. The only other choices are to do yourself in, or let it eat at you over the long haul."

"So, you've chosen to move on," Bones said.

TJ nodded. "Looks like."

Things went quiet for a few seconds, until Booth couldn't stand it anymore. He scratched his head, searching for a way to phrase this in the most tactful way possible.

"So, if Jamie didn't get up there and find you after you'd…" he began.

"Hopped a plane to the great vacation in the sky," Jamie finished for him.

"Tipped one back with St Peter himself," TJ volunteered.

"Shaken hands with the horn-ed devil." Caleb, this time.

Jamie quirked an eyebrow. "Isn't that jerking off?"

"That's the horn-_y_ devil," TJ corrected them.

Jesus Christ. "Why the fuck are you in the hospital?" Booth finally interrupted. "If you didn't try and kill yourself up at the cabin, what are you doing here?"

"The idiot slipped on the ice and hit his head getting out of my car once we were back in town," Jamie said.

"Concussion and ten stitches," TJ said. He tilted his head toward Bones, pointing to a shaved patch at the very back that had been hidden by his pillow before. Bones inspected the stitches, while Booth just rolled his eyes.

Yep. There was definitely nothing worse than writers.

While TJ and Bones and Jamie were getting caught up a little more, Caleb came over and took a seat next to Booth.

"Jamie told me what you did for Teej back in D.C. – going to talk to the Senator like that." The Senator – Senator Woolrich, that is – was Caleb's mother. Somehow, "Mom" didn't seem to fit nearly as well.

"I figured while she was in town, it couldn't hurt," Booth said.

"And it obviously didn't," he agreed. "Though she's been kind of on the warpath since she hit town. You might want to watch your back once you get back East."

Booth kind of chuckled. "Nah. D.C.'s a long way from Portland – I'm sure she's got bigger fish to fry."

"It's not as long as you might thing. She was out there for most of December, and now that she's got her new, uh, _beau_," he drew the word out, "I'm thinking she'll be there more than ever."

Suddenly, things didn't look quite so funny. Booth turned in his chair, searching Caleb's face for any sign that he was kidding. "TJ said your mother was only in town for a few days – she got there after he'd flown in."

"She was only in _D.C. _for a few days," Caleb corrected him. "But her guy's got some ranch in Virginia. She stayed there for a couple weeks before she started hobnobbing with greasy politicians."

Booth scratched his head. Things were starting to fall into place – and he didn't necessarily like the way they were falling. He glanced over at Bones; she was still deep in conversation with TJ and Jamie.

"Who is this new man in your mom's life? She mentioned him a couple times while I was there."

Caleb made a face like he'd just gotten a whiff of something long dead. "His name's Charlie Lampole. I can't figure out what the hell a guy like that's doing with a ranch, though – "

"_Knuckles _Lampole?" Booth asked in disbelief, loud enough for the others in the room to turn his way. He nodded for them to go back to their conversation, and lowered his voice. "Your mother's dating Knuckles Lampole?"

Caleb chuckled a little. "So, I take it you've heard of him."

"Yeah, we've crossed paths once or twice, seeing as how he's one of the biggest mob bosses on the fuckin' east coast. I hope the Senator knows what she's getting into."

Caleb got quiet. He looked over at Jamie and TJ. Jamie had her hand resting on the back of TJ's neck. They were laughing. It didn't look like a possessive move, though; it looked natural, the way it always felt when Booth's hand was at the small of Bones's back. For the first time, Booth remembered that Jamie and Caleb had dated over the summer. _Awkward._

"Yeah," Caleb said, pulling himself back to the conversation. "Strangely enough, I think she knows exactly what she's in for. If anything, I think somebody should warn Knuckles."

Booth hung out for a few minutes more before he checked to make sure Bones was okay, and then he excused himself. He dodged questions when Bones asked, but she seemed all right with that – calmer now than she'd been since their talk last night, and Booth didn't know whether that was thanks to the booze or the company. He figured he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, though; if something was making her feel better, he was okay with it.

* * *

Senator Woolrich was home when Booth got there. Caleb had given him directions to their place – a big old Victorian with a nice lawn and a wrought iron fence and giant trees in the front yard. It smelled like pine and damp earth, the neighborhood street lined with trees and similar-looking houses. There were no kids playing on the sidewalks and there were no bikes, swing sets, or toys on the lawns. He tried to imagine Caleb and Doug growing up here, and suddenly he had a good idea why they'd turned out the way they had.

He made it halfway up the front walkway before he was met by two big, beefy guys with sidearms visible under badly-fitted sports coats. Neither of them looked like they had much of a sense of humor.

That was good. Booth didn't feel much like laughing, himself.

"I'm here to see the Senator," he said.

The larger of the two guys – a man with a block head on a rectangular body, thick eyebrows and thin lips – stepped in Booth's path.

"She's not receiving guests right now." He had a thick Jersey accent, and he spoke the words without a trace of irony. In general, though, Booth was pretty sure irony wasn't a concept this guy was acquainted with.

"She'll want to see me," he said, and he kept right on moving until he was chest-to-chest with Blockhead.

They met eyes for maybe a split second before Booth brought his forehead down, hard, and caught the man on the bridge of his nose. Blockhead fell to his knees; Booth whirled on the other guy – a bottle blonde who looked like a mobster posing as a surfer – and had the man's gun out of his hand before he'd gotten the safety off.

"Tell Knuckles he needs to start investing a little more in his security detail," Booth said. He emptied both guns, pocketed the cartridges, and handed them back. All told, the whole scene had taken maybe three minutes.

* * *

Rebecca Woolrich was in her study – a library that smelled like leather and old books, with wood beams and old… everything. She had a drink in her hand, and she didn't look all that surprised when Booth walked through her door.

"Would you like a drink, Agent Booth?" she asked. Her voice was smooth, low. She wore a pale pink business suit with no shoes – apparently, this was what passed for casual in the Woolrich home.

Booth knocked the drink out of her hand and advanced on her so fast that she had to either take a step back or get bowled over.

"If you ever go near my partner again," he said, anger clenched so tight that his chest felt like it might explode, "your mobster boyfriend and every goon he could hire won't be enough to keep me from coming for you."

Her eyes widened, but he could tell she wasn't actually afraid – it was just more playacting, from a woman who'd spent her life perfecting the role.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what – "

"Don't lie to me." Booth took another step forward and she took another step back, until she was backed against a wall of bookshelves. Her pupils were wide, but Booth had a good idea that fear was the last thing causing the reaction.

"I'm afraid this isn't so much intimidating as stimulating, Seeley," she said, smooth as ice. "You and I both know that a man like you doesn't resort to physical violence where ladies are concerned."

He stood there, immobile, trying to push himself to make a move. "I know you trashed my partner's apartment to set TJ up, so we'd toss him in jail and he'd stop nosing around about Alan Wright's murder."

She smiled. He could smell her perfume – flowery and too strong – and the gin on her breath. They were just inches away; he'd never seen the Senator look happier.

"Those are some bold accusations, Seeley. Do you have any proof of that?"

He thought of all the scumbags he'd willingly beat to a pulp to keep Bones safe. Of all of them, he figured the Senator probably ranked among the worst, but… Over the years, Booth had crossed a lot of lines he'd drawn in the sand for himself. Somehow, though, violence against a woman – no matter how evil she might be – still wasn't one of them.

He backed up, and let her go. His eyes were hard, his heart beating fast. The Senator just kept smiling, like she was well aware of the fight raging in his head.

"Everybody knows now that Phil Taylor was TJ's father," Booth finally said.

She shrugged. Her eyes hardened just a little, though, which told Booth he was on the right track.

"That hardly affects me," she lied. "If anything, it just makes me look more sympathetic – the poor, unsuspecting wife of not only a serial killer, but a philandering one at that."

"If that was true, I wonder why you were so hell-bent on getting TJ to back off, then," Booth mused out loud.

She turned to pour herself another drink. Booth didn't stop her.

"Here's what I think, Senator," he said. She turned around, stirring her drink. Her eyes had gone cold. Apparently, this wasn't as much fun as the promise of violence had been.

"I think you were having an affair with Alan Wright. And I think all four of you – Phil Taylor and Janine Wright and your writer boy, Alan – were into some pretty kinky games. It was the eighties, right? A little coke, a little swingin'... No harm, no foul. Phil and Alan rule the campus, you and Janine keep the home fires burning. Except something went wrong, and somebody convinced Janine that the only way to make it right was to put a bullet in Alan's brain."

"And I ask, again," the Senator asked, "Where is your proof? You've concocted some sick little fantasies, but – "

"That's the beauty of sick little fantasies, though," Booth interrupted. "I don't need proof – it's not like we're going to court with any of this shit, are we? All I need to do is plant a couple of seeds in the right reporters' heads, and they'll start digging. I think you and I both know that, once they do, some secrets are gonna come out."

For the first time, he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. She took another drink, a faint tremor in her hand making ice clink against the glass. She set it down.

"Leave Temperance Brennan alone," Booth said. "Leave TJ alone. Do whatever you want with your new boyfriend, take over the fuckin' Senate for all I care… Just don't go near my partner again, and none of what I just said ever leaves this room."

He turned around without waiting for her to come up with an argument. He was almost to the door when Knuckles Lampole appeared. Knuckles looked like he'd come straight from a Sopranos casting call – big gut, overly greased hair, a ring the size of a ping pong ball on his right hand.

"You okay, baby?" he asked the Senator. The mobster stood in the middle of the doorway, blocking Booth's exit. Blockhead and the Surfer were standing behind him.

"Let him go," the Senator said from behind Booth, to his great relief. "I'm fine. We just had a little talk."

Knuckles didn't move for a second, thinking it over for himself until the Senator said, "Let him go, Charlie."

Knuckles stepped out of the way; his hired goons followed suit. "You doin' okay, Seeley?" he asked. They'd run into each other more than once over the years, but it still made Booth a little uneasy that Lampole knew him by name.

Booth shrugged. "Some days are better than others."

Knuckles kind of laughed as Booth walked past. "Ain't that the truth."

* * *

That night, Booth and Bones were back in D.C. by midnight. They spent the night at his place, since the idea of facing the hurricane that was Casa Bones was a little beyond both of them. At least, that was the story Booth gave Bones. The fact was, he had his own reasons for keeping his partner on his own turf for a few more hours; he just couldn't let _her _know that.

It had been an intense few days, without much down time or space between them (other than that whole hostage situation thing, but Booth didn't really count that as personal time). Once they were back at his place, Booth grabbed a beer and settled on the couch with Sports Center. Bones stood in the doorway in his t-shirt and boxers, looking like she couldn't decide on her next move. She'd slept most of the flight back, and Booth found he was having a hard time figuring out where her head was at after her visit with TJ.

"You wanna sit, Bones? You're starting to make me nervous."

"Sorry. I – I'm just not really in the mood for television." He reached for the remote to shut it off, but she shook her head. "No – you go ahead. I just thought I would go to bed and read for a while."

"Yeah, Bones, of course." He felt that uncertainty he'd felt when they'd first started dating, trying to figure out what she wanted without actually coming out and asking. "I could come with you, if you want."

She shook her head. "No, that's all right."

It came out fast enough that he could tell that him coming to bed with her was pretty much the last thing she wanted. He tried not to be hurt by that. All she needed was a little space, he told himself. Really, it was the last he could give her.

"Okay, then – I'll just finish watching this, get caught up on the scores. I'll be in in a while."

She went to bed without kissing him goodnight. He watched the bedroom door for a while, until the light at the bottom of the door went off about a half-hour later. Booth ended up dozing on the couch, flipping channels. Trying to work himself up to going in there.

It felt like all the rules had changed since she'd told him about Guatemala. When he could touch her. Where. How often. How long. Hell, the whole thing had happened years ago, but it felt to Booth like this was anything but an old wound they were dealing with. And what was worse, he kept replaying every time he and Bones had been together before: times when he might've been a little too rough, said something or done something or touched her in some way that might have reminded her of what happened in the jungle that day.

Sleeping with her all these months, making love a hundred different ways… How had he never seen this? Glimpsed some sign of what she'd been through?

Booth ended up falling asleep for good at around three, still on the couch with the TV on. He dreamed of jungles and explosions all night; in every one of the dreams, Bones was just around another corner. Always just out of reach.

When he woke up, his back was sore and his neck was stiff and somebody had turned off the TV. Bones had left a note on the fridge.

_Gone for a run. Back with breakfast. – Love, Brennan_

It was seven o'clock. The city was back at it already – it always made Booth a little sad how little time people actually took out for Christmas. He took a shower and shaved and, because he was tired of feeling like crap and because, damn it, this was going to be a good day, he put on his favorite old Christmas CD – Bing Crosby.

By the time Bones got back, Booth was dressed and hungry as hell, Bing still crooning, the kitchen clean. She had muffins and coffee and a big egg-bacon sandwich thing from the shop on the corner, which made him love her just a little more than he had before, if that was possible.

"Good run, Bones?"

"Very good run." She set the food on the table. He got out plates and silverware. "I would have woken you, but I know you haven't been sleeping well." She took a drink of her coffee and looked at him over the edge, a hint of uncertainty in her blue eyes.

"You didn't come to bed last night," she said. The way she said it, trying to sound casual, made him realize he'd made the wrong choice by giving her space.

"Yeah... I fell asleep. Sorry, Bones." He reached across the table and took her hand, tangling his fingers with hers. "I just knew you were beat, and I thought… I didn't know if you might need some space."

"Oh," she said. She thought about that for a second or two. "I didn't, actually. Need some space, I mean. If I had, I would like to think I just would have said…"

" 'I need some space'" Booth guessed.

Instead of looking pissed, she just smiled at him. She lifted her eyebrows, like she thought he was kind of an idiot, but she wasn't ready to throw in the towel just yet.

"So, in the future," she said, "if either of us doesn't know what the other one is thinking, or what they want, it seems to me that it would be more logical to just… ask."

Booth scratched his neck. "That does seem pretty logical, Bones."

"We could try that game Tripp told you he used with his wife – "

"One question, no holds barred?" Booth asked.

She nodded. "Exactly. That way, we eliminate the guesswork."

"Very practical, Bones."

With that settled, Booth's eyes drifted to the clock on the microwave. It was eight-thirty. Shit. He hopped out of his seat, almost capsizing his coffee in the process.

"That twenty questions thing is gonna have to wait, though. We've got places to be."

He pulled Bones out of her seat in a reflex gesture, something he'd done a hundred times before without really thinking about it. As soon as he realized what he was doing, his stomach dropped and he pulled away.

Before he could get too far, Bones grabbed his shirt and pulled him back – none too gently, either.

"Stop doing that," she said.

"I'm sorry, Bones, I didn't think about it – "

"Not _that," _she said. And there it was again – that Booth's-an-idiot look. A guy could get a complex if this kept up. "Stop treating me as though something's changed. What happened in Guatemala didn't take place last week, or last month, or even last summer."

She took a step closer to him, until they were toe to toe. He could smell the sweat on her skin, the coffee on her breath, the faint scent of her shampoo. Her cheeks were pink and her hair ponytail was coming loose, and he thought she'd never looked prettier.

"I'm all right, Seeley," she said, holding his gaze.

Booth felt a little rush of emotion he wasn't prepared for. He ducked away when he felt himself start to tear up.

"It kills me to think of anybody hurting you the way they did," he said. He choked on the words, still trying to hold it together.

"I know," she said. She worked up to a smile, her own eyes glistening just a little. "But what happened then doesn't change the way I feel about you. I think that to some degree you may have been right about this being analogous to a bone break – "

He started to step back, realizing for the first time just how close they were, but she grabbed hold of his arms and held him where he was.

"… But you weren't completely right," she said. "It's an old break, Booth. Healing has taken place, to a significant extent. We might have to go slow for a little while, but it doesn't change anything. I won't let it."

He wrapped his arms around her and, when he didn't feel any resistance from her, held on tight. For just a second, he let himself go – let tears fall for who she was and where she'd been and for the fact that somehow, through all of it, she'd decided to risk it all and love him.

"I love you, Bones," he said into her neck.

She pulled back, and put her hands on either side of his face. Wiped the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs, studying his eyes the way he'd seen her study bones whose mysteries she was trying to unlock.

"I think we're going to be okay," she said.

God, he'd love to believe that.

She let him go and sat back at the table, leaning back in her chair. She looked more relaxed than he'd seen her in a while. "Now… You said we had somewhere to be?"

"Huh?" he asked blankly, still trying to pull himself together after what seemed lately like a nonstop emotional rollercoaster.

"A few minutes ago – you said we had to go. I thought we had the day off, but…"

He came to, swiping at his eyes as he realized that time was passing them by.

"Shit! Yeah, Bones. We have to go – I promised Parker we'd come get him and take him to visit Dani – she's got one more day in the burn unit. And I figured we could stop in and say hi to Sweets while we're there."

"I thought we weren't picking up Parker until this afternoon – his Christmas gift is still at the apartment. And we need to pick up Dosha from Hodgins and Angela… I'll need to stop by my place."

He shook his head, fast, before he gave any of his plans away. He pulled her up and turned her around, this time without hesitating, and gave her a little push toward the bathroom door.

"Don't worry about it, Bones – I already talked to Angela about Dosh, they're all set. You've got whatever you need to get you through the morning here, and you can get Parker's stuff once we get to your place this afternoon."

She turned around just before she hit the bathroom. "Booth, we can't bring Parker to my apartment – it's complete chaos there."

Oops. "Don't worry about it," he said, smooth as ice. "Bones, just get in the damned shower, okay? We'll figure it all out later."

And, for once in her life, Bones didn't argue. Booth's faith in Christmas miracles was restored.

**TBC**

* * *

_Tune in Sunday night for the final word from Brennan on how she's handling all this angst of late, and a lovely Boothy Christmas surprise. In April. 'Cause that's how we roll, here in fic-land. Thanks for reading, you guys; you're the best! - Jen_


	13. Chapter Twelve

**_Holy Mary Mother, the story is complete! Clearly, I'm dreadful at deadlines - good thing I chose a business where you never have to worry about those. Oh, wait... :-) Anywho... At long last, Murder in the Marriage is done. Hope y'all like it, and I will see you back here in May!_**

* * *

"Booth, this is absurd – I'll only be a few minutes."

"Just tell me what you need, Bones, and I'll get it."

She was in his truck, in the parking garage of her building. Brennan crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her best glare at him. Not unexpectedly, it seemed to have no effect. Booth stood at her door, refusing to move out of the way despite the cold or the fact that, at least according to him, they were running substantially late for plans he had neglected to tell her they even had.

"There are a stack of gifts in the closet that I need to get," she said.

"We can come get 'em later – I already told you. Whatever you need this morning, I can get for you."

She grabbed his arm before he could go anywhere. "One of the gifts in the closet is yours – I would prefer if you didn't see it."

"I'll close my eyes, Bones."

"If you close your eyes, how will you – "

"Jeez, Bones… Just let me do this, huh?"

She didn't let go of his arm. After a stalemate of a few moments, Booth exhaled deeply and took a step closer to her. She smelled his aftershave and the peppermint of a candy cane they'd shared on the ride over.

"Your present's inside the apartment, okay, Bones? If you go in, it'll ruin the surprise. Now, would you just tell me what you need so I can go get it and we can get on with this?"

In spite of her feelings on the season in general and the past few days in particular, she felt the color rise in her cheeks.

"How did you get it inside the apartment while I was gone? What is it?"

"Now, that would _really _ruin the surprise, Bones," he said. "C'mon, babe… Give a guy a break."

She turned back around to face forward, resettling herself in her seat. "Fine. Just get the small stack of gifts wrapped in red paper in my hall closet. And my scarf – the blue one that I like."

"With the little sparkly stripes?" he asked.

She liked that he knew that. She had no reason _why _she should like such a trivial thing, but she did. She nodded, and watched him jog off toward her building's entrance feeling more at peace than she had in quite some time.

It had taken the conversation in Booth's kitchen before Brennan had felt him begin to look at her as something other than a glass about to shatter. She wasn't certain what had been so pivotal about that moment, other than her ability to look him in the eye and tell him with absolute confidence that she was all right. It had felt good to her as well, she had to admit; over the years, she'd spent so much time being comforted by Booth, that it was nice to have an opportunity to return the favor.

_I get scared, and I'll hug you, _he'd said, years ago.

She felt as though that was exactly what had happened that morning.

The problem was that, despite her determination in that moment, Brennan found that she still felt an ever-present, inexplicable tremor ever since her conversation with Booth in Washington – as though everything was happening in the glare of a bright, bright light that she could not escape. The world seemed too close, noises too loud, typically inoffensive smells acrid and overwhelming… She felt like an exposed nerve; like her skin had become too thin to protect her from the world around.

It was absurd, the way that she felt. Absurd, and very annoying.

At the sight of Booth coming back toward the truck, she pushed such thoughts away. He was loaded down with the gifts Brennan had been purchasing sporadically over the past two months, which he dumped into the backseat without ceremony as soon as he reached the truck. Then, he clambered back behind the wheel and peeled out of their parking space. He was clearly in a hurry.

"Werner said you were supposed to take a few days off to relax," she said, referring to the tension in his shoulders and the way he clenched the steering wheel.

"And that's exactly what I'm doing, Bones," he said.

They were headed toward the Beltway. The sun was bright in a clear blue sky; it was two days after Christmas, and there was no longer any snow on the ground.

"You don't look very relaxed to me," she said.

"I'm relaxed, Bones." He glanced at her with a hint of a smile. When he spoke again, his voice had lost much of its tension. "Trust me, Bones… I'm more relaxed than I've been in weeks. I'm good."

* * *

En route to picking up Parker, Brennan caught a glimpse of the site where the Hoover Building had stood just days before. The street was still cordoned off, with crews working around the clock to clear the debris. She glanced at Booth. His mandible tightened as he ground his teeth together at the sight.

"What do you think will happen to Sheriff Lincoln?" she asked.

It was the first time they'd spoken of the case since she and Booth had left for Oregon. Based on the look on Booth's face, however, she suspected he'd been giving it a great deal of thought.

"I don't know. He saved my life in there – no doubt about it, Bones. If he hadn't stepped in, Hartwick would've slit my throat right there."

"But he was part of the conspiracy – taking Parker's bus, Janie Billings's murder, the destruction of the Hoover itself…"

Booth rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, Bones, I know. He's not gonna get off – trust me, I know that. He'll go down as a domestic terrorist, and I don't have a clue what'll happen to Maylene and their boys, and it'll just be more shitty fallout from Black Ridge."

He looked out the window, his jaw tighter than ever now. "Just a little more blood on the hands of the jackasses who set the whole thing in motion almost twenty-five years ago."

"I know how much you love this country," she said. "And how difficult it is for you when the government is cast in a questionable light…"

She waited for him to dismiss her statement, or cut her off with some pat explanation of why the government wasn't to blame for what had happened on Black Ridge. Instead, he merely looked sad.

"They really fucked up there, Bones," he said. "I mean… I just can't stop thinking of how that could've been me just as easy as Bill Lincoln. How many times have I answered the call, taken the assignment, gone in the field without ever asking why? You don't second-guess your country, Bones. Especially not when it's one as great as this."

She knew better than to argue with him right now, despite the fact that she was not completely in agreement. It was too raw a subject for him. It heartened her to realize that she understood at least this much about him now.

"But this case has you rethinking your position?"

"Nah, Bones – I mean, not really. It's just… What if that _was_ me? And they send me out there to do my job without even really knowing what they're sending me into… And then, when it all blows up in my face and I'm forced to gun down little kids just to save my own life and the lives of my men, _then _the high-ups not only pretend they don't know me, they actually make up the fuckin' story that seals my fate."

He scratched the back of his head, his eyes steadfast on the road ahead.

"It couldn't have been a widely known decision," Brennan said. He looked at her, his forehead creased. She had to admit that, occasionally, it was nice that _he _had to be the one to have concepts explained further.

"This case – Black Ridge – was known only to those at the very highest levels of the government. Which means there were likely very few individuals actually involved in the decision to keep Lincoln and his men's role in the operation a secret. So… Rather than blaming the entire government and America as a nation, perhaps you could lay the blame at the feet of those few parties who actually handed down the decision. You know there are always a few bad aids in bureaucracy – we've certainly run across our share."

"Eggs, Bones," he said. "It's bad eggs." A faint smile returned to his lips, the tension in his shoulders easing perceptibly.

"Oh," she said. "Well… The rest of my theory stands, regardless."

"It's a good theory, Bones." He smiled at her, his eyes lingering for just a moment before he returned to the road ahead. "I'm gonna do my damnedest to believe it."

By the time they reached Rebecca and Brent's home, Booth's mood had lightened considerably. He pointed out Christmas lights (which Brennan hardly could have missed, but she didn't tell him this), put in another of his seemingly limitless supply of Christmas CDs, and was unmoved when Brennan pointed out that the holiday had actually passed two days before. To be fair, she was enjoying herself, as well… For once, she was willing to let the semantics slide for the sake of a bit of light-spirited fun.

Rebecca didn't seem to realize that Christmas had passed two days ago, either. An evergreen in her front yard was still decorated with blue lights, and there was an animatronic Santa Claus stuffing toys into an unrealistic-looking animatronic sack to the left of the front door. Once they'd pulled in and parked, Brennan rooted around in the backseat while Booth stood impatiently to the side.

"Bones, we're gonna give Parker his stuff later – you don't need to haul it out now."

"These aren't for Parker."

His brow furrowed. "Well, then who the hell are they for?"

"They're for Rebecca and Brent."

Booth looked perplexed. "Bones, you don't have to get stuff for Rebecca. She's…"

"She's Parker's mother, Booth," she said. She finally found the two packages – scented candles for Rebecca, a book on pioneer aviation for Brent, both recommended to her by Angela, and both wrapped in bright red gift paper. "I spoke with Angela… She agreed that this would be a nice gesture."

Before Booth could pursue the matter any further, Parker came barreling out with his backpack over his shoulder. Rebecca stood in the doorway and waved to them.

"Are you guys ready?" Parker asked immediately. "Dani's been waiting for me."

"Sorry, bub – hang on a second, we're gonna go in and visit with your mum and Brent for a few minutes."

Parker looked as though his father had just suggested that Martians were invading the planet – a combination of horror and confusion that Brennan found quite similar to some of Booth's expressions.

"But why?"

Booth shrugged. "Don't ask me – it's Bones's idea."

"Because it's a gesture of civility and goodwill," she said.

Parker heaved a sigh, put his backpack in the truck, and trudged back up the walkway with just a fraction more melodrama than his father. Rebecca merely looked confused when they all met her on the doorstep.

"Bones says we have to visit with you now," Parker said.

Brennan was momentarily uncertain of the move herself, but relaxed when Rebecca smiled, though a trace of confusion lingered in her eyes.

"Uh… Yeah, of course. That could be… nice, I guess."

Rebecca and Brent's living room was still decorated with Christmas lights and garland, a fire roaring in the fireplace and the smell of cinnamon in the air. For a moment, Brennan felt a twinge of regret that she wasn't better at creating such an environment herself. She thought of her own apartment. Not only was there no tree or decorations, it seemed like it would be a literal safety risk to even bring Parker there, let alone celebrate Christmas in the place. Booth bumped up against her with a small grin, in an attempt to pull her out of such ruminations. She started at the sudden contact, but recovered before he seemed to notice her reaction.

"No deep thoughts, Bones – it's Christmas. Have a cookie."

He handed her a sugar cookie in the shape of a wreath, and waited until she'd taken her seat in an overstuffed chair in front of the fire before he perched beside her on the arm. Brent and Rebecca disappeared in the kitchen for a moment, and Parker went to call Dani and tell her he was going to be delayed.

Booth's fingers drifted absently beneath the collar at the back of her shirt, rubbing her neck lightly. It was an innocuous gesture – he'd touched her that way dozens of times since they'd first begun dating, neither of them giving it a second thought. But something about it – the pressure of callused fingers at the base of her neck, heat from the fire in front of her… _something _that she couldn't even identify, made her stomach clench. She pulled away from him, just slightly, and felt her throat tighten at the hurt that flashed in his eyes before he had time to hide it.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly.

"Don't worry about it, Bones." He got to his feet and stood awkwardly beside the chair.

The cookie she was eating was too dry; it stuck in her throat, her heart rate uncomfortably accelerated yet again at Booth's touch. She wished she had never insisted they come here – the whole thing had gone so much more smoothly when she'd imagined it.

"This was a mistake," she said. At the look on his face, she added quickly, "Coming here, I mean. They clearly weren't expecting us."

He moved away from her chair and leaned with his back against the wall instead. She could tell that he was trying to make it appear like a natural transition, but it felt like anything but.

"It'll be fine, Bones – Rebecca lives for this kinda thing. They're gonna come out of the kitchen in about thirty seconds with a tray of hot cocoa and some crackers and cheese, and we'll sit around and make awkward conversation about Parker and work and, if things get really bad, me and Brent can talk about the Steelers for a while, and you and Becca can compare recipes."

She stared at him. "Why would we do that? I don't even know any recipes."

"'Cause that's what extended families do, Bones… Society says we've all gotta get together in the same room a couple times a year to prove we're still civilized." He shrugged, taking a bite of his cookie. "I didn't make up the rules – and I would've been more than happy to let this whole thing slide, anyway. This was your idea."

Though his words sounded casual enough, it felt like there was an underlying edge to them – or perhaps it was just sadness she was hearing. Silence stretched between them until, just as Booth had said, Brent and Rebecca emerged from the kitchen a short time later with a tray of hot chocolate and some hastily-prepared hors d'oeuvres. Parker returned with a hand-held video game that he played while seated on the floor in front of the Christmas tree. The conversation, however, wasn't quite as staid as Booth had predicted.

"We heard about the Hoover," Brent said when they were all seated, plates balanced on their laps and instrumental holiday music playing in the background. "What a week, huh? Thank God you and Parker are both okay."

Brent was dressed in jeans and a Boston University sweatshirt, wearing slippers that Brennan suspected he'd gotten for Christmas, based on their obvious lack of wear. He was an attractive man with an unobtrusive manner that typically seemed to set others at ease. He didn't seem that unobtrusive about this particular subject, however.

"And you're sure you got all of them, Seeley?" Rebecca asked. Her voice was taut. "No one else who was part of this will suddenly, I don't know, come out of the woodwork to settle a score?"

Parker put his video game away, turning his head to listen to the adults' conversation. Booth looked uncomfortable.

"We got everybody who was involved, Becca," he said. "Parker's safe. I'm safe."

"Dr. Sweets almost died, though," Parker said.

"Where'd you hear that?" Booth demanded.

"Dani told me," Parker said. "Her dad told her about everything that happened. How they shot Dr. Sweets, and you kept him alive 'til they could get him out."

"For somebody you just met a couple days ago, you and Dani sure seem to be burning down the phone lines." Booth said. Parker blushed.

"Oh, you have no idea," Rebecca said. She seemed to lighten slightly at the change in subject matter. "We barely saw him while we were in Vermont. If they weren't texting, they were talking; if they weren't talking, they were chatting."

Parker squirmed, but remained silent.

"And wait 'til you see what he got her for Christmas," Rebecca continued, apparently unaware of her son's discomfort.

"Mom," Parker said, his cheeks brightening still further. "Be _quiet_. Dad, can we _please _go?"

"Hey, bub – don't tell your mum to be quiet," Booth said, though it seemed an automatic response, rather than one with any real weight behind it. Brennan noted with some relief that Booth did retrieve their coats, however.

"What did you get her?" Brennan asked, genuinely curious.

She was flattered when the discomfort fell away and Parker looked at her with what appeared to be real enthusiasm. "Wait 'til you see – you'll really like it."

"The rest of us wouldn't get it," Rebecca explained to she and Booth. "Only Temperance and Dr. Hodgins, apparently, are cool enough to appreciate this kind of awesome gift. I just hope Dani's _parents_ are cool enough to appreciate it."

"You'll see it when she opens it up," Parker said. "But – well, okay, I'll tell you. She's gonna love it." He waited a second or two, clearly enjoying the suspense he'd created. "I got her…an _ant farm_."

Booth's eyes widened. "Wow. That's…" She could tell he was doing his best not to laugh. "That's a great present, Parks. Does Dani… I don't know, _like _ants?"

"Dad, she's gonna be an entomologist – like Dr. Hodgins. Or else a primatologist. She hasn't decided yet. But since I couldn't get her a monkey, I thought…"

"I think it's a wonderful gift," Brennan said. "I remember my first ant farm – it was very educational. And if Dani's already focused in that direction, I think it's wise to give her something that encourages that. When I was her age, I would have much preferred someone had given me an ant farm than jewelry or some impractical trinket."

Parker linked arms with her and pulled her toward the door. He glanced over his shoulder at Rebecca, Brent, and Booth, with just a hint of disdain.

"See. I told you Bones would get it."

* * *

"I think this'll probably be the last year I spend Christmas in Vermont," Parker told them imperiously, as soon as they were back on the Beltway bound for the hospital.

Brennan turned around to look at him. Booth seemed distracted; he kept his eyes on the road, and had made no attempt to make any type of physical contact with her since the incident at Rebecca's.

"I thought you enjoyed spending Christmas in Vermont," she said.

"But the city's really pretty at Christmas," he said. "It's nice to just walk around and look at all the lights in the Capitol."

She saw Booth's mouth twitch. "What does Dani think of Christmas in D.C.?" he asked.

"Dani's spent three Christmases just walking around the city with her dad," Parker said immediately. "And two years in a row she went to New York City, and she said they spent the whole day ice skating and they ate hot dogs in the park. And one year she spent Christmas in Austin, Texas."

Parker said "Austin, Texas" in much the same way Brennan imagined others might say "Paris, France."

"Dani doesn't like cities usually – her dad's taken her on safaris and camping and she usually just likes to be outside. But she says if you're gonna be in a city, Christmas is the best time."

"Dani seems to have a great deal to say on the subject," Brennan said.

"And a whole lot of other subjects," Booth said dryly.

They shared a smile while Parker, oblivious to any derision in his father's tone, continued to tell them in painstaking detail about his new friend's taste in music, movies, and television, not to mention landmark events in her past, present, and projected future.

By the time they reached the hospital, Brennan felt she could write a fairly comprehensive dissertation on the subject of Dani Humboldt.

After the explosion that had killed the officer from the bomb squad a few days earlier, Dani had been staying in the burn unit at the GW University Hospital. Parker became more somber as they walked through the maze of brightly lit corridors in search of Dani's room. More than once, they heard the moans or cries of pain from patients whose injuries were likely agonizing. The tenor of the place seemed to affect Booth, as well. Brennan noted with dismay that he was still being careful to keep his distance since her reaction at Rebecca's. He hadn't initiated contact once while they were driving to the hospital, and now he walked with Parker in between them as they made their way through the hospital.

When they finally reached Dani, staying all alone in a room that had been brightened by dozens of cards, vases of flowers, and balloons, Parker hesitantly stepped away from them. In his absence, Brennan reached for Booth's hand. She held it tightly in her own as Parker approached his friend's bedside, noting sadly how relieved Booth seemed at her touch.

Dani seemed smaller in the hospital bed than she had when Brennan first met her at the school bus the other day. The right side of her face was bandaged and her red hair was scorched on that side, her right hand likewise wrapped in bandages. From what Brennan could tell, that seemed to be the extent of the child's injuries.

Parker's steady stream of chatter had ceased shortly after they entered the hospital. Now that they were actually in the room with her, Brennan could see his uncertainty. It was only when Dani turned, her blue eyes shining brightly, that he took a step closer to her.

"I thought you'd _never_ get here," she said. "I've been soooo bored."

Parker had her gift – awkwardly wrapped and decorated with half a dozen garish bows – in his arms. As soon as she spoke, he practically launched it over the bed's plastic railing at her.

"This is for you," he said.

Brennan half-expected him to turn around and run out of the room as soon as he'd delivered it.

"You got me something?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It's no big deal. I just saw it and thought of you, so… I can take it back if you want."

Dani wrapped her thin, unbandaged arm around the package protectively. "No way. At least, not 'til I see what it is."

Brennan glanced at Booth. They stood with hands entwined, but she noted that he was still making an effort to keep some distance between them. She lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, knowing he wouldn't dare to make the move himself.

A question flashed in his eyes.

"I'm all right," she mouthed to him.

He nodded, and smiled faintly. She leaned into him as Parker helped Dani unwrap her ant farm, which was met with an enthusiastic squeal.

"This is _perfect," _the girl said happily. She proceeded to read to Parker from the back of the box, explaining all of the benefits of this particular ant farm over all other ant farms on the market.

She drew Brennan into the conversation before long, when Parker told Dani that Brennan had also had an ant farm as a girl. While they were talking, Booth nodded toward the doorway.

"I'm just gonna head down to see Sweets – you can come down when you're ready," he said.

"I can come with you," she said quickly, starting to get her coat.

"Nah – stay here, teach the junior squints a thing or two." Something about the way he said it told her there was a reason he wanted her to remain behind. "I'm sure you guys'll be done before too much longer."

He was very sweet saying goodbye to Dani, giving her a quick hug and a paternal kiss on the forehead that, Brennan suspected based on the girl's rising color, was not viewed as at all paternal by Dani herself. Brennan watched him go, and then was immediately drawn into a conversation about entomology versus primatology and her own preferred areas of study. Ten minutes later, with Parker showing no sign that he would be finished with his visit in the immediate future, Brennan excused herself and went to find Booth.

* * *

It occurred to Brennan as she was rounding the corner on the floor below, bound for Sweets's room, that she had spent a great deal of time visiting sick friends in the past few days. She wasn't typically one for resolutions, but if it was at all possible, she resolved to spend much less time in hospitals in the year to come.

When she reached the room where Sweets was staying, she paused just outside the door –

which had been left ajar – at the sound of Booth's voice. He was shouting. Not shouting outright, perhaps, but she could hear the frustration in his tone. She was about to knock to announce her presence when she realized he was talking about her.

"If you knew something like this had happened to her, why the hell didn't you say something?" were his exact words, actually.

She stepped to the side of the door and stood against the wall outside, her head tilted in the direction of the conversation.

"Booth, I swear… I didn't know." Sweets sounded weak. This wasn't the type of conversation he should be having in his condition – even _she _knew that. Booth was usually more sensitive about such things. "I just… It was a feeling, that's all. She told me a little about some of the dreams she'd been having, and the combination of knowing what I do about her past, and the panic attacks…"

Silence fell. Brennan held her breath, waiting for them to continue.

"Is she okay?" Sweets finally asked.

She heard Booth's sigh all the way into the hallway. The weariness cut straight through her.

"What do you think, Sweets?" He lowered his voice, so that Brennan had to move slightly closer to hear him.

"It's like she's in it all over again, and I don't know what the hell to do about it. This is out of my league. I shouldn't even be talking to you about it – I don't know why the hell I'm here. It's just… If you'd seen her face, Sweets." Booth's voice broke. A second or two passed before he spoke again, his voice strong once more. "I don't know how to help her."

"She needs to speak to someone," the psychologist said.

Brennan felt herself tense at the mere mention of the subject. She realized that her heart was pounding, as though she'd just run up a flight of stairs. She felt nauseous. And tired. And, perhaps most of all, angry enough to beat someone bloody. Sweets seemed like the first likely victim.

"There's no way she's talking to you about this stuff, Sweets, believe me. She'll barely talk to me about it."

"Not me," Sweets said quickly. "She doesn't trust me enough for that – and I don't have the expertise for these types of issues, anyway. But I have a colleague who's dealt with this kind of trauma before…"

Brennan noticed that Sweets's voice was fading, his speech beginning to slur.

"Sorry, Sweets," Booth said, apparently having noticed the same thing. "Jesus, I know you're not exactly in shape to talk about this shit."

"Yeah, but… The fact that you're talking to me about it at all suggests that you're pretty desperate."

More silence. Booth started to tell Sweets that he would go and let him rest, and Brennan tried to steady herself enough to pretend she'd heard none of the conversation. Before any of that could happen, however, Sweets stopped him.

"Booth… I know this happened several years ago, so she – and possibly you – will be tempted to treat this as an old wound. Something that's already done a lot of the necessary healing…"

"You don't think that's true?" Booth asked.

A nurse was coming toward Brennan from down the hall. She was overweight, with a clipboard in one hand and a steely glint in her eye that Brennan suspected probably meant trouble for anyone in her path.

"These things don't resolve themselves in a few days, Booth," Sweets continued. His speech was so slurred now that it was difficult to understand him. "Rape victims can go months, even years, without being able to handle physical intimacy… She's in it now because it's the first time she's allowed herself to confront that trauma. This won't easy for either of you, but Brennan – "

The nurse reached Sweets's door and pushed her way inside with barely a glance at Brennan.

"I thought I said five minutes, and no stressing out my patient," the woman demanded of Booth, once she was inside the room.

Brennan brushed any residual tears from her eyes, squared her shoulders, and walked in to face her partner. She was angry when she came through the door, shaking with emotion. Sweets's physical condition, however, diffused much of her anger. The nurse was injecting what she suspected was a sedative of some kind, into the IV port in his left hand. He was paler than she had ever seen him. In the hospital bed, the psychologist looked thin and frail and both older and younger than she knew him to be. His eyes were already fluttering closed when she reached his side.

"Dr. Brennan," he said. "I'm glad you're here."

Booth looked at her guiltily and swiped tears from his eyes, trying to hide them from her.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner," she said. Her voice sounded cold to her ears.

"S'alright," Sweets slurred. "I wish I could…" He shook his head, obviously trying to clear it of the medication. "I don't think I can stay awake," he said.

Before she could respond, his eyes had drifted closed. The nurse was still working on him – checking his vitals, updating his chart, obviously waiting for them to leave.

"We should go," Booth said. "I have… We've still got some things to do this afternoon."

She nodded. She walked out ahead of him. He made no attempt to catch up to her.

* * *

Despite Brennan's insistence to the contrary, Booth refused to take them to pick up Dosha before he drove them back to her apartment. She was in a foul mood – tired and oversensitized, a sense of hopelessness having invaded after overhearing the conversation between Booth and Sweets. Her partner was exhausted by her; she could hear it in his voice. And who could blame him, really? It felt as though she'd brought nothing but unnecessary drama to his life from the time they'd first started dating.

She missed the lab and her old life, suddenly, very much.

To her relief, Parker kept up a running commentary through most of the trip back to her place. In order to placate Booth, she'd agreed to let him take them both up to the apartment briefly so that she could open her gift, before they went to lunch and returned to his apartment for the evening. She wasn't looking forward to any of it; in fact, through most of the ride she'd been trying to come up with a convincing excuse to get out of all the festivities and just be left behind.

By the time they took the elevator to her apartment, she wasn't in the best state of mind. To her surprise, however, Booth and Parker seemed to be rebounding quite nicely. Parker kept giggling the closer they got to the third floor. Something had taken hold of Booth, as well – as though even the darkness surrounding them at the moment wasn't enough to shut out the light of the season. The mood was undeniably contagious; it was difficult to remain too downtrodden with her two favorite Booths whispering to one another, casting sidelong – and wholly obvious – glances her way.

"I wish you'd just tell me what you've done," she finally said, as they stepped off the elevator.

"Whaddya mean, what we've done, Bones?" Booth asked innocently. He put his arm around her shoulder – gently, with trepidation, but she felt him relax when she didn't recoil.

"Yeah, Bones, whaddya mean?" Parker said, imitating his father's expression perfectly. He took her hand. The three of them walked the well-lit corridor together.

The closer she got, the more difficult she found it to remember her troubles. Despite everything, she felt a small quiver of anticipation. She liked the gift she'd gotten for Booth; she was looking forward to seeing him open it. And she loved the things she and Booth had picked out for Parker together, over a month ago – before any of this nightmare had started.

Once they reached her door, Parker tugged off his scarf and handed it to Booth. "You should blindfold her, Dad," he said. "This is worth a blindfold."

"Uh – that's all right, bub," Booth said smoothly. "Bones can just close her eyes. I trust her." She knew why Booth had elected against the blindfold, and was grateful – and equally grateful at how easily he seemed to skirt the issue.

"Okay," Parker said grudgingly. "But you have to close them tight, Bones. No peeking." He seemed more excited about whatever was behind the door than any of them.

She put her hands over her eyes, laughing now, because Parker was tugging on her and Booth was trying to get the door open, and _this, _she realized… _This_ was the Christmas she had been missing all those years. _This _was her life. Whatever grim forecasts Sweets may have predicted, whatever difficulties may lie ahead, as long as she could still have moments like these – Booth on one side of her, Parker on the other, their home just past the threshold – then perhaps they could weather any other storms that might be on the horizon.

Once she was inside, she heard the door close softly behind her. Her apartment smelled like pine needles and freshly baked cookies, and she couldn't help but open her eyes when a cold nose touched her hand.

For a long moment once her eyes were open, Brennan found that she could only stand there in silence. The apartment had been transformed. Not repaired, exactly; there were still holes in the walls that would need to be patched, the television set was broken and two of her paintings had been removed as a result of the damage inflicted… But it was clean, and homey, and - most surprising of all - a beautifully decorated Christmas tree reaching nearly to the ceiling stood in the center of the living room, gifts stacked high beneath it.

"How did you…?" she asked Booth.

Parker was very happily getting acquainted with Dosha, the two of them excitedly exploring the gifts beneath the tree. Booth looked at her shyly, slipping his hand into hers.

"I know Christmas is rough for you, Bones," he said. "So, I figured… Maybe I can let you have the 25th to remember what you lost, if you feel like you need it. But then maybe we can have a different day that's just ours, to celebrate what we do have."

She wrapped her arms around him and held on tightly, so close that it felt suffocating and fierce and yet she refused to let go, refused to put anymore distance between them.

"We have a lot, Bones," Booth said in her ear, his arms still tight around her. "We have a whole hell of a lot more than most."

They stood that way for a few seconds, holding one another beneath the shadow of the tree. It felt good to lean into him this way, to feel him strong and unshakable by her side. Before long, however, she looked up to find Parker looking at them with unmistakable disdain.

"Look at all the stuff under the tree – you guys can hug anytime. I wanna see what you got me."

"Not so fast, bub," Booth said. He disentangled himself from Bones, still holding her hand as he punched numbers into his cell phone. "We've gotta feed the decorating committee first."

* * *

Within half an hour, the apartment was filled with their friends, who, Brennan learned, had spent the past two days cleaning, cooking, and decorating in anticipation of their return.

"So you've known about this since we left, and you never said anything?" she accused Booth later that evening.

They were gathered in the living room – Cam and Tripp seated by the tree and Angela and Hodgins on the sofa. Brennan was in an armchair with Booth seated on the floor in front of her, his hand resting casually at the back of her ankle. The interns had all gone home, leaving the six of them chatting amiably, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper and opened gifts.

Booth grinned. "Hey – I know how to keep a secret, what can I say? All I know is, you dodged one hell of a cleaning bill this way."

"Oh, it was totally worth it," Angela interjected. Hodgins had an overflowing plate of food balanced on his lap, of which Angela seemed to be enjoying the majority. "How else am I ever gonna actually be sanctioned to look through Booth's drawers?"

Booth's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "Hey – That wasn't part of the deal. I just told you to put up garland and colored lights, I never said anything about…"

"I'm pretty sure she's kidding, Seeley," Cam said coolly.

Booth blushed. "Yeah. Sure she is."

Brennan didn't miss the subtle smile on Angela's face. And knowing her best friend as she did, she was willing to bet the artist had, in fact, gone through Booth's things without a moment of guilt. She decided it was probably best not to tell that to Booth, however.

"All I know is, I'm glad you didn't have to stay out west any longer," Angela said, after a moment's silence. "Knowing you were back on that mountain headed toward that psycho's cabin… I don't care if he is dead, it still gave me the heebie jeebies."

Parker looked up. He was on the floor with Dosha, apparently teaching her to lie down – with a surprising degree of success. "Who's dead?"

"Nice, Angela," Booth muttered. "Nobody, bub. Just work stuff."

"It's not like you can't talk about that stuff in front of me anymore, Dad," Parker said. "I've seen dead guys before. I've seen a ton of bodies in Bones's lab. And that guy who saved Dani the other day…" He stopped abruptly, a shadow cast over his young face. No longer addressing the rest of the group, Parker turned his attention back to Dosha. "I've seen stuff," he said quietly to the dog.

The room fell silent for a moment. Brennan could tell that Booth's attention was now fixed on his son – she could feel the tension in his body, watched the way he studied Parker, who was now fully focused on Dosha.

Hodgins cleared his throat. "Well, hey… I hate to break up the party, but we should probably head home. If the little woman stays up later than eight these days, the baby gets cranky." He grinned. "And by baby, I mean Angie."

"Oh – you did _not _just call me the little woman." Angela said.

She got up with ease, her swelling stomach still not significant enough to slow her movement. When Hodgins held out his hand so that she could help him up, she rolled her eyes dramatically and turned her back on him.

"Jack's right, I really should get going. Cam, Tripp, you mind if I catch a ride with you guys?"

Cam glanced uneasily at Tripp. "Uh… Sure. I guess. Always room for one more."

Hodgins's eyes widened. "What? Angie… I was kidding. C'mon. You know I _totally _respect…"

Angela turned and looked at the scientist. A single raised eyebrow was all it took for him to sigh with a combination of relief and consternation.

"Kidding. You're kidding," he said.

"_This _time," she said. "Trust me, call me little woman again and you'll find out just how serious I can get."

Booth and Brennan stood and walked their guests to the door. When they were out of hearing range of Parker, Tripp nodded toward the little boy, looking inquiringly from Booth to Brennan.

"You think he's okay?" he asked.

Booth grew somber. "I don't know. They've got kids' books about everything from taking a crap to having two moms, but I haven't seen anything about how to handle a guy blowing up all over your first girlfriend."

Angela hugged Booth, then Brennan. "He'll be okay – he's got great people in his life. Just talk to him."

"It's a helluva time for Sweets to have to almost die," Booth griped. "I've finally got shit I could use him for, and he's gotta get shot."

"Yeah," Cam said dryly. "Some people are so inconsiderate."

Tripp hugged Brennan and dropped a kiss at her temple, pausing to offer quietly, "If you guys need anything, you know where to find us."

She met his eye and smiled appreciatively. Booth's words in front of the diner years ago came back to her: _There are all kinds of families, Bones. _Her father was god knew where, Russ was with Amy and the girls… But she truly did have a family of a sort here. And she was grateful for that.

"I know," she said to Tripp. "Thank you."

Once everyone had been ushered out, she and Booth stood at the door of the suddenly-quiet apartment for a few moments. She'd noticed over the course of the evening that Booth was not initiating contact with her, though he seemed grateful when she did so. It felt awkward in a way, particularly as it was so unlike him, but she appreciated that he was trying to give her the space that she needed. She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head against his chest. Tentatively, he returned the embrace.

"Are you ready for your present now?" she murmured into his chest.

A few days ago, she knew that such a question would have been followed by some type of sexual innuendo. That knowledge made the silence that ensued that much more awkward.

"You didn't have to get me anything, Bones," he finally protested. "I've got everything I want."

"Of course I got you something," she said. She kissed him quickly on the mouth, but moved away before he could reciprocate.

Parker looked up when they returned to the living room. By mutual agreement, they had saved the gifts meant for the three of them until after everyone else had gone. Now, the little boy brightened considerably when Booth pulled three large packages from the hall closet.

"Can I go first?" Parker asked as soon as the gifts were out.

Booth looked at Brennan, who nodded readily. "Go for it."

Booth and Brennan sat on the sofa together, with Parker on the floor and Dosha lying with her head in his lap, as though she couldn't quite bear to be separated from the boy. The first gift was from Booth – a new pair of hockey skates, as Parker had had another growth spurt over the past year and had outgrown his latest pair.

"No more growing for at least two years, Parks – I mean it," Booth said.

Parker rolled his eyes. "Right, Dad. I'll do my best. These are awesome, thanks." He lost interest quickly, turning to Brennan with a grin. "It's your turn next, Bones. You can open mine first."

She glanced at Booth, who nodded his affirmation. Parker handed her a surprisingly weighty square box, and then perched beside her on the couch, watching eagerly as she opened it. Inside, buried in a flurry of tissue paper, she found a homemade, misshapen mud gray coffee mug with a message written in sloping red letters all the way around it.

She studied it for a moment, trying to decipher the words.

"World's Best Fornes?" she asked.

"_Bones," _Parker said. "World's Best Bones." He looked sheepish. "I was gonna write 'World's Best Forensic Anthropologist'… But after the first three letters, I knew I'd run out of room. So… I turned it into Bones. See," he pointed at the first letter. "There's a line there – it's a B. Sort of."

It was without question the ugliest mug she had ever seen in her life. And she'd never gotten anything that moved her more.

"Thank you," she said, hoping to inject a fraction of her emotion into the words. "I love it. I'll take it to work with me, and use it everyday."

"I don't think you should drink out of it," he said, looking alarmed. "It probably leaks, or you'll get poisoned or something. It's more to look at."

"I could put my pens in it, then," she said immediately. "I'll keep it on my desk – I'll never move it. Unless I have to clean, of course."

The boy smiled at her shyly. "You really like it?"

"I love it. It's the best gift I've ever gotten." Despite the many fine gifts she'd gotten over the years, Brennan firmly believed that she was speaking the truth.

It was Booth's turn next. Before he could pick up his present from Parker, the boy pushed it out of the way and grabbed the large box that held Brennan's gift to him. Or rather, he _tried _to grab the large box Brennan had gotten his father.

"Jeez, Bones, did you get Dad a sack of bricks for Christmas?" Parker asked.

Booth looked at her curiously. "You didn't have to get me anything, Bones. I mean… Not anything expensive, anyway."

"It wasn't expensive," she said. "Just open it."

He gave her one last disapproving glance, before he dove in and unwrapped the large package. Once he'd removed the paper and opened the box, he sat back. He bit his lip and scratched his head, his brow furrowed. Parker peered over the edge of the box, repeating his father's gestures and expression almost exactly.

"Huh," Parker said. "You _did_ get Dad a sack of bricks for Christmas."

"Thanks, Bones," Booth said. "This'll be great for that wall I… never really planned to build."

"Those are from my childhood home," she explained. "I went there last weekend, while you and I were apart. It had been torn down, but these were still on the property. I began thinking of how much I'd loved that house, and I realized that if I was going to build a house of my own with someone one day…" She paused for a moment, trying to figure out how best to phrase what she wanted to say.

"You wanted a solid foundation," Booth completed for her. "One with some history."

She bit her lip, feeling rather self-conscious about the gift now. She should have gone with season passes to some sporting event or other, though Angela had assured her this would be more meaningful to Booth.

"I could get you something else," she said quickly. "I just… When I started thinking of us building a house together, I began to get…" She sighed. She was doing this all wrong. "There's something else in there, actually. You just have to move a few bricks."

"It's not a puppy, is it?" Booth asked. "'Cause if so, you probably should've used a different box."

Parker giggled. Brennan merely rolled her eyes. "Just look."

Booth carefully removed three of the bricks before she heard paper crinkling. She saw his brow furrow as he took out three sheets of copy paper, wrinkled and dirty from being under the old bricks.

"These are…"

"Plots of land," Brennan supplied. "I didn't purchase them, of course. But that weekend when we were apart, I began to look around online. Which was absurd, because I didn't even know if we'd get back together, but… I couldn't help myself. And I know you'll want to weigh in on them, but I just wanted you to see that…" She took a breath. "This is what I want, too," she said. "I'd like us to build a house. I'd like us to… have a life. Together."

Booth was beaming as though she'd given him a new car. Parker, however, was unimpressed.

"Seriously? You got him bricks and a bunch of paper?" He shook his head. "An ant farm would've been a lot better."

Booth shook his head, his eyes glistening. "Sorry, Parks – I'd rather have this than a bunch of bugs any day of the week. Hell, I'd rather have this than a pot of gold."

He seemed uncertain as to whether or not he should hug her, so Brennan made the decision for him. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around Booth's waist, and he held her close while they watched Parker open the remainder of his gifts – a genuine Jeffersonian lab coat with his name monogrammed on the pocket from Brennan, and a new snowboard that Booth and Brennan had purchased together.

When he was finished, Parker looked at Booth eagerly. "Now Bones should open the present you got her," he said. There was a sparkle in his eye that made Brennan distinctly uneasy.

Booth scratched his neck. "Maybe we should open my present first," he said. He looked at Parker. "That one you keep pushin' to the back of the tree? How about we start with that?"

Brennan had been curious about that herself. "That's fine – open that," she agreed.

Parker didn't look nearly so enthusiastic. In fact, he looked unmistakably… terrified.

"It isn't a very good present," he said before Booth could take the box from him. "Let me take it back, and I'll get something else. I could get something a lot better."

"What're you talking about, Parks?" Booth asked. A trace of concern was beginning to show in his eyes. "You know I'm gonna love whatever you get me. Now fork it over, huh?"

With great reluctance, the boy handed the package to his father. It was approximately the size of a shoe box, wrapped in lime green paper with a purple bow.

"Mom said it was a good idea," Parker said defensively, as Booth removed the last of the paper.

He stared at the box for a few seconds in silence. Brennan sat beside him, her hand on his knee, the darkened apartment lit by Christmas lights and candles. Booth had put Bing Crosby on a short time earlier; the old crooner sang Merry Little Christmas in the background, as Booth ran a shaking hand over the carved wooden box in his lap.

"Where'd you get this, Parker?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

Parker shifted, his eyes on the floor, his hands tangled in Dosha's fur.

"I called that guy – Mr. Hyte, from your old house?"

Booth looked at him. Something had hardened in his eyes, all of the tension that had dissipated over the course of the day suddenly returned.

"Why would you do that, Parker? I told you I didn't want anything to do with that place."

The boy's eyes filled with tears that he tried in vain to hide, his head ducked down and his gaze locked on the dog beside him.

"I just wanted to know… I wanted to ask him some stuff. There are all these questions that everybody else my age knows, and I know all about mom's side of the family, but I can't ask you anything." The words were coming out in a torrent now, as though he'd been holding on to them too long. "I don't even know what happened to your mom and dad – I don't even know if they're alive or dead. And I thought maybe since Mr. Hyte lived there, he might know."

Booth let out a long, slow breath. He set the box on the sofa between he and Brennan, and then reached for Parker.

"Come on up here, bub." Parker did as he was told, settling beside his father on the edge of the couch. "Mr. Hyte moved there long after we moved out, Parks. There was no way he would've known anything about my folks."

Parker nodded, his gaze still fixed on the floor. "I know – that's what he said. But then he said he found this, so I thought…" He finally looked up, his dark eyes pleading for Booth to understand. "I didn't open it up, but I saw the cover and I thought… No matter what went wrong between you and me, if something happened and we weren't together anymore, I'd want that box."

Brennan looked at the words carved crudely into the front of the wooden box.

SEELEY

JARED

DAD

OCT 19, 1980

She touched his hand gently. "This was at the house when you moved?" she asked.

He didn't say anything, his attention focused entirely on the box between them.

"Parker," she said. Parker looked at her curiously, almost as though he'd forgotten she was in the room. "Your father and I have this new game we were going to start playing – called Truth."

The boy looked intrigued. "Like Truth or Dare, you mean?"

"No – there's no dare. You just have to tell the truth. You ask the person a question, and they have to answer honestly. And then they ask you a question, and you have to answer honestly. Would you like to give it a try?"

It was as if Booth was no longer part of the conversation, still locked in some piece of his past that he couldn't seem to let go of. After a moment of thought, Parker nodded.

"Yeah. Okay. What do we do?"

She considered the question. "I suppose you could ask me something, if you'd like."

"Anything I want?"

It seemed a dangerous proposition, but she nodded with only a moment's hesitation. "Anything you want."

He thought for a very long time. When the question finally came, it wasn't anything like what she'd expected. He sat back down on the floor, cross-legged, stroking Dosha's head gently.

"Those guys that killed that man… The ones who tried to kill me and Dani, and Dr. Sweets and Dad…"

She nodded, already feeling as if she was out of her depth. "Yes. What about them?"

"Why did they do it? What could be so bad that it'd make somebody want to kill a whole bunch of kids, and blow up a huge building like the Hoover? How could anybody do that?"

She looked at Booth pleadingly. At the question, he seemed to come to. He got down on the floor beside Parker and pulled the boy – so much bigger than he'd been when Brennan had first met him, already bearing the weight of things she wished he never had to know – into his lap.

"They lost people they loved, Parker," Booth said. "And sometimes when that happens, people look for somebody to blame. They decide that somebody has to pay, because they think that's the only way they'll ever feel better."

Parker leaned back against his father, his head fitted just under Booth's chin the way she remembered him resting as a little boy.

"It must be awful to feel that way," he said thoughtfully.

Booth nodded. He dropped a kiss on the top of Parker's head. "Yeah, bub. I think it probably is." He looked over his shoulder at Brennan, still seated alone on the sofa.

"C'mon, Bones. Get over here. And bring that box, wouldja?"

The three of them sat in a circle on the floor, the box set in the middle. Brennan looked at Booth expectantly. He was obviously still feeling uncomfortable about what they would find, but was doing his best to keep the moment light.

"So, you think I should open it, Parks?" he asked.

"Yeah," Parker agreed. "You don't know what we could find in there – there might be treasure, Dad. We could be billionaires."

Though Brennan thought this an extreme statistical improbability, she refrained from saying anything. At last, Booth opened the box.

He took out the items one by one, laying them side by side on the carpet.

A doll in a red jumpsuit with a black eye. "The Bionic Man," Booth said, as though he'd just uncovered a Hindu relic. "You know who this guy is, Parks?"

Parker looked at him cluelessly. Booth looked at Brennan.

"C'mon, Bones… You're not all that much younger than me. You've gotta know who this is."

She shook her head. "Why did you have a doll with a black eye?"

Parker snickered. Booth sighed. "He wasn't a doll, Bones – he was an action figure. And he didn't have a black eye… It was bionic. That's it, the next thing we're renting is The Six Million Dollar Man."

Parker peered into the box and picked out a harmonica. Booth palmed it, blowing into it and producing a surprisingly accurate rendition of Yankee Doodle.

"This was your grandmother's," Booth said to Parker. He handed it to the boy. "She said since we couldn't fit her piano in there, this was the next best thing."

"This belonged to your mom?" Parker said. "She used to play this?"

"All the time," Booth said. "She'd tuck your Uncle Jared and me in when she could, and she'd play us something on this. She was good, too."

Parker gazed at it in wonder before he returned his attention to the box. He stared at the next item he withdrew in complete bafflement. Booth laughed.

"It's an eight-track," he explained. "My old man was the last guy in the neighborhood to have an eight-track player in our car. He loved the thing. This was one of his favorites."

Brennan noted the title – The Band, Last Waltz.

"Leonard Cohen," she said. Booth looked at her in surprise. "I like Leonard Cohen," she explained. "My parents loved The Band when I was growing up."

Parker was already diving into the rest of the box, oblivious. He looked puzzled when he came out with one item in particular, setting down a glass bottle half-filled with dark liquid. The question was plain in his eyes.

"Wild Turkey," Booth said. "It was my dad's favorite." He scratched his neck. "The weekend we buried this, your granddad had stopped drinking. He wanted us to celebrate… This was what we came up with. We spent all weekend putting the box together, and we all carved our names on the front there. We took the last of the booze from the house and emptied everything out."

Booth palmed the bottle, staring at the label. "This was the last of it. I was about to dump it when your granddad took it. He said we should keep it – to prove he was really done, instead of dumping it we'd bury it with everything else. 'That part of our lives is dead and buried now.' That's what he said," Booth said quietly. He set the bottle back down again.

"And was it?" Parker asked.

Booth shook his head. He looked at Parker. Brennan suspected the last thing he wanted to do was answer the question, but she was proud of him when he maintained eye contact with his son.

"No. The night after we buried it, I went out and dug it up and buried it someplace else. Just in case. It was a good thing, too… About a week later, I woke up at about two in the morning and he was out in the yard. Trying to find it."

Based on the look on Booth's face, Brennan suspected the story didn't end there. Parker had grown somber again. Booth poked him in the ribs with a smile.

"C'mon, bub, don't stop now. We're just getting started. Keep diggin' – I'm pretty sure Uncle Jar's got some good stuff in there."

Sure enough, there were more treasures to be found. Baseball cards; a signed photo from two brothers Brennan had never heard of, pictured hanging out of an orange car with a Confederate flag on the roof; another signed photo of the same car, this time with a long-legged woman in impractically short cutoff jeans, hanging out the window. There was a toy gun, a worn baseball, and a tattered copy of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette lining the bottom of the box. After Parker had removed it, he gazed into the box with his brow furrowed in confusion.

"That's it, right Parks?" Booth asked.

"Nope – one more thing. I guess you must've forgot." He took out a cracked and faded leather belt. "And there's a note," Parker said.

He handed them both to Booth, who had paled visibly.

"Booth?"

He nodded. "Yeah… No, I just… Uh, I didn't know this was in here."

"What's the note say?" Parker asked. He seemed to sense the change in atmosphere, his tone more cautious than it had been.

Booth hesitated only a moment before he unfolded the crumpled note. When he didn't say anything, Parker looked over his shoulder.

" 'God Forgive Me,'" Parker read. "Why would you write that?" he asked. His voice sounded shaken. "And why'd you put it with your old belt?"

"It wasn't my belt, Parks," Booth said. "It was my dad's. And so was the note."

"Oh," Parker said.

Brennan could tell that Parker didn't understand the implications of the leather belt and the note, and for this she was grateful. She gently took them both from Booth, piling it and the rest of the items back into the old wooden box and sealing it shut.

The music had stopped some time ago. The apartment felt still and somber and oppressive. Brennan got up impulsively, grabbing Booth and Parker's hands and pulling them with her.

"Come on," she said.

"What?" Booth asked. "Come on where? It's almost ten o'clock – way past somebody's bedtime."

"It's our Christmas," Brennan protested. "Get dressed. We have to take Dosha out anyway – let's go for a walk around the block. We can look at the lights."

Parker didn't need to be asked twice – perhaps grateful for a reprieve from the intensity of the day, or perhaps merely because he was anxious for an adventure, he was already diving into the closet for his jacket and boots.

"C'mon, Dad. It'll be fun."

Booth grudgingly got himself dressed, and before long they were outside in the streets of D.C. Parker had insisted on taking Dosha's leash himself, though there was some confusion as to who was walking whom. A light snow was falling, Christmas lights reflected off the wet pavement as she and Booth walked down the street hand in hand.

"You still haven't given me your gift," Brennan said, when Parker was farther ahead.

A moment of uncertainty crossed Booth's face, but vanished quickly. "I know. When we get back. I'd rather wait 'til it's just you and me."

She looked at him curiously, but decided not to pry. "Parker couldn't have known the implications of giving you that box," she said instead.

"I know. But, y'know, I'm glad he did. It's better to talk about it than keep everything bottled up – I never realized how much worse it's been for Parker, me not talking about this stuff."

Brennan shivered involuntarily at a particularly gusty wind that swept down the street. Booth put his arm around her without thinking, then hesitated when he realized what he'd done. He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

"It's all right, Booth," she said.

He studied her for a few seconds. "It's not, you know." He looked down at the ground, his arm still around her as they walked. "No matter how much we both wish it was… You can't take back what happened to you. It's not gonna just go away this time, Bones."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I know that," she said quietly.

"We'll get through it, though, Bones," he continued. "And you'll be stronger for it – _we'll_ be stronger for it, if you just stick with us. It might take a little time is all."

"And that's all right?" she asked. She disliked how much seemed to be riding on his answer.

"And that's just fine, baby," he said. He twisted his neck and kissed her temple, never breaking their stride. "Take all the time you need. I'm not goin' anywhere."

* * *

That night, after Parker and Dosha were sleeping contentedly in the spare room and the dishes were done and the tree unplugged and the apartment once more in some semblance of order, Brennan fell into bed in exhaustion. Booth came out of the bathroom still brushing his teeth, wearing only his boxer shorts. He hesitated when he saw her beneath the blankets.

"I could sleep on the couch, if you want…" he said.

She shook her head. "Please don't."

He padded back into the bathroom. She heard him spit and rinse into the sink and then finish his bathroom rituals before he came out again a few minutes later. He looked almost shy as he approached the bed.

"You're sure you'll be okay?"

Her chest was already tightening. Rather than pretending she was fine, she shook her head. "I'm not. Sure, I mean."

"But you want me to sleep here anyway?"

"We won't figure this out if we run from it," she said. "This has never happened to me before – I have no way of knowing what will trigger it, so I have no way to form a sound hypothesis. A good scientist must use a certain degree of trial and error, before ultimately forming a theory that can then be either proven or disproven."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Booth laughed. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

"So… That means you _do _want me to sleep here, right?"

She reached for his hand and pulled him toward her. "That means I want you to sleep here."

He got under the covers, lying tensed on the other side of the bed until she inched closer to him. She moved his arm as though he were a mannequin, posing him the way that she wanted him and then settling herself with her head on his shoulder. He turned to face her. They lay beneath the blankets, his forehead tipped to hers. Brennan was acutely aware of every point of contact between them. Bones to bones – metatarsus to metatarsus, patella to patella, her pelvis against his, his hand at her ribcage. She felt her heart beat more rapidly; she waited expectantly for the flood of chemicals that signaled arousal.

They did not come.

"You never gave me my Christmas gift," she said, after a few seconds of silence.

He nodded, his head bumping very lightly against hers. "I know," he said.

"Are you going to?"

He hesitated. "I'm not sure it's the right time."

"Oh." Another silence. She sighed. "Is it a horse?"

He laughed. It felt good to her – his body moving against her that way, the lightness of the moment.

"Why the hell would it be a horse, Bones?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "It definitely wouldn't be the right time for a horse."

More laughter, this time from both of them. "Well, you can relax, 'cause it's not a horse," he said.

When the laughter had faded, they lay there in the silence for a few moments. Booth's hand moved lightly along her side.

"I love your laugh," she said, after some time had passed. "After your eyes, it's the first thing I loved about you. Though I was always partial to your body, of course."

It was true. She couldn't remember a time, even in those early days when he was driving her crazy, that she hadn't been attracted to him physically.

"I don't remember what I loved about you first," he said. "I don't even remember falling in love with you… It's like it was just always there. I met you, we fought, we worked together, you knocked a guy unconscious, we kissed in the rain, you slapped me so hard I saw stars… And then you were gone, and I couldn't get you out of my head."

"But then you _must_ have gotten me out of your head, because you dated other people. We both dated other people."

"'Cause we were friends, Bones. And the last time I tried anything, you left me standing in the rain and almost knocked my teeth in a couple days later."

"And now here we are," she said.

He nodded thoughtfully. "And now here we are."

She tilted her head up and was just about to touch her mouth to his when he spoke.

"I bought you a ring," he said.

She moved away from him. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Like a…"

"An engagement ring," he said. "It's in my coat pocket. It's been in my dresser drawer for a while now." His voice was quiet, a touch uneasy. "It was a stupid thing to do – I know how you feel about marriage."

"If you'll remember, you also thought you knew how I felt about having children."

He stopped. Moving, breathing, speaking. "What?" he asked uncertainly.

"I'm simply saying… People's views of the world evolve."

"So you're saying your view of marriage…?"

She ran a hand through his hair, studying the planes of his face in the shadows. When she kissed his mouth, he tasted like toothpaste. His lips were soft. Familiar, comforting. Tender enough to be heart crushing.

"When I was staying with Angela, we talked," she said. "I told her what I'd been thinking lately… About having a child with you."

"And Angela said we should get married before we have a kid?" he asked. Based on his tone, she was guessing he thought this an unlikely scenario.

"Not for the moral implications. But because of Parker." He didn't say anything. "Angela says it would be difficult for you to be in another situation with someone who wanted to have your child, but refused to marry you."

"So, if I gave you a ring right now and asked you to marry me…"

She hesitated. It seemed as though a great deal was riding on the moment. "I wouldn't say no."

A second passed. "Would you say yes?"

She shifted her body and pressed her mouth to his. He hesitated. She did not. She reached her arm around his broad back, pulling him closer. She could feel him, already hard, pressed against her center. Pressure was building in her chest and in her head. She draped her leg over his hip and pressed herself against him, deepening the kiss despite the fact that it was becoming progressively more difficult to breathe.

Booth was the one to pull back. "Temperance," he whispered.

She didn't answer. Her head felt heavy, her breathing labored.

"Slow down, babe," he said. "It'll happen."

"How do you know that? Nothing about this makes sense… I was fine before, and now suddenly we have one conversation on a mountaintop in Washington and it feels as though something is missing, as though my body has been rewired in some way."

"Nothing's been rewired, Bones. Nothing's missing. But you're not gonna be able to just push through this, or stuff it in some corner of that big brain of yours while you go on with life like it never happened. Things will be hard for a while. I told you… We'll get through it."

"I don't even know why you'd _want_ to marry me – I'm a mess," she said dryly. "I want to have your child but I panic every time you touch me… I think the institution of marriage is archaic and demeaning toward women, and yet the thought of you and I, bound by something that has weight and tradition behind it is…"

"Is what, Bones?" he asked.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes searching hers. The world seemed very quiet, suddenly. She felt the beat of his heart beneath her hand, the steady flow of blood through his strong, warm, vibrant body. She imagined them growing old. Statistically, it was probable that he would die before she would… What would it be like, losing him after a lifetime of moments like this? How did anyone face that?

"The world is a very precarious place," she said carefully.

"Yeah. It is," he said. She liked that he didn't try to refute the statement.

"There are no guarantees," she continued. "Even if we were married, a thousand scenarios could unfold and split us apart. There are natural disasters, murderers, car accidents, plane crashes."

He smiled. Without fear, without hesitation. He pulled back so that he could look her in the eye.

"Tornadoes," he said. "Earthquakes, fires, floods…"

"Those were implicit with the natural disasters, actually. I'm simply saying that a wedding ring doesn't guarantee anything. Anthropologically speaking, males are biologically programmed with an urge to reproduce. After I'm no longer able to conceive, it's entirely possible that you could – "

"Bones, stop," he said, his voice still surprisingly light.

Before she could respond, he sprang out of bed and went into the bathroom. When he returned, still in his boxer shorts, one hand was behind his back. Brennan sat up in bed.

"Booth."

He knelt on one knee beside the bed, and presented her with a velvet box. She had no idea what to say.

"You make me nuts, Bones. You've always made me nuts – the way you correct everything I say, the way you don't know normal human stuff like that there are field goals in football or who Marsha Brady was, or how you hog all the blankets and help yourself to my fries 'til I only have three left, and then get pissed when I take one of yours."

She straightened in the bed, pulling the blanket around herself. "That only happened once."

"It happens all the time." He shrugged. "And I don't care. Maybe I'm crazy, but the fact is, I love it. I love everything about you – especially the things that make me nuts. But the thing I love best about you, Temperance, is that you're brave, and you're honest, and you make me want to be a better man. That's not gonna change in a year, or ten years, or fifty years. I can't make any promises about floods or car crashes or giant asteroids."

He straightened, his knee cracking as he did so, and sat down on the bed beside her. He opened the velvet box and held it out for her to see.

"I can promise you that the way I feel about you won't change, though – not in sixteen lifetimes. So, how 'bout it, Bones?" He bumped her shoulder with his, giving her that grin she'd tried so hard to resist when they'd just started out. "Will you marry me?"

She took the box from him. Her knees were folded up to her chest, the blanket tangled between them. The room was dimly lit, the apartment quiet. It was remarkably easy to breathe, considering the weight of the moment.

"It's beautiful," she said of the ring. Booth didn't say anything. There were so many reasons this was not a good idea.

"I don't want to change my name," she said.

"Yeah, there's a shocker."

"And I don't want a large wedding."

"No problem, Bones," he said. The trepidation had left his eyes, a faint glimmer of hope in its place. "I hate big weddings."

"And I'd like to wait – just a little while," she said, more seriously. "Just until I feel like myself again."

He took her hand and nodded, equally serious. "That sounds fair."

She eyed the ring. "Can I still wear it, though? Even though we aren't setting a date right away?"

He grinned so widely she could see nearly every one of his white teeth, even those in the back. "Yeah. Yeah, if you want to, of course you can wear the ring. I mean… It's an engagement ring. There's no rules about setting a date first."

She held out her hand. It was difficult to tell which of the two of them was shaking more as Booth slipped the ring onto her finger. She held it up to the light, not at all certain of what she was supposed to be looking for.

"I made sure it wasn't one of those blood diamonds," he said quickly. "It was a little harder to swing, but I knew you wouldn't want something like that."

For some reason, it was that statement that moved her more than anything else about the entire night. She lay down, pulling him with her so that they were once more side by side. The ring felt odd on her finger. She studied it, her hand resting on Booth's broad chest. He kissed her forehead.

"We should get some sleep," he said. "It's been a long day."

He rolled over and turned off the bedside light, then returned to her. She thought of the way they would have celebrated something like this, just a few days ago; of what it was like to feel his body moving with hers, the paradox of all of that physical power coupled with a tenderness she'd never felt from anyone before Booth. Even as she tried to push herself to take action, she felt her body tense.

Booth felt it, too. "Sleep, Bones," he said. "Everything else'll come in time."

He waited for her to find a comfortable position, then relaxed with his arms wrapped loosely around her.

"Thank you," she said into his chest, just as they were falling to sleep.

"Don't thank me, Bones," he said. His voice was soft in her ear. "You're the one who saved me, a hundred times over. I'm just grateful you keep me along for the ride."

A few minutes later, she was in that peaceful, heavy state just before sleep when something brought her back to wakefulness. She furrowed her brow.

"I don't hog all the blankets," she said, Booth's earlier statement finally registering. "And I know who Marsha Brady is."

He chuckled. "Go to sleep, Bones."

She closed her eyes once more, listening to the reassuring sound of his heart. With sleep, she knew, would come dreams she didn't want to have; moments she didn't want to relive. Secure in a warm bed in a warm apartment with a family she'd never imagined she would have, wrapped securely in Booth's embrace, she let herself drift. If this was what she awoke to, she could handle whatever monsters awaited her in her dreams.

She slept.

FIN

* * *

_I would be remiss if I didn't thank just a few people who have provided not only incredible encouragement in this writing quest of mine - both in the world of fanfic and RL writerliness - but have also become great friends along the way. Between Twitter, LJ, Facebook, and , everybody has about a thousand different usernames, so it can occasionally be hard to tell who anyone is at any given time, so I'm just gonna go with LJ names... For no other reason than those are the ones I remember best. _

_Amilyn, ladychi, trust_your_hart, labsquint, temper_temper, cupcakebean, jillianfish, spacekid77, huronia, ama_blue, lizook12... Wow, is it bad if I list my entire list of LJ friends? Anyway, you get the point. Both friends I've made on Livejournal and those I've met here have been so supportive and kind, and I'm grateful for everyone's patience and encouragement along the way. Thank you to everyone who has read and commented and taken an interest in this little world we've created!_

_One more thing, then I promise I'll let y'all go. If you're on Livejournal, mosey over and say hello at bloodwrites dot livejournal dot com - it's been a great way to meet people, and I'm hoping to be on LJ much more frequently in the coming months. In addition, I'm still working on building this whole RL writing career, so if you're on Twitter looking for a friend, by all means, follow! You can find me at twitter dot com/jenblood. And, last but not least, check out my RL website for the latest on some of the writing stuff happening in my world these days, at **jenniferblood dot net.** I'm doing a new e-zine available for download beginning June 1st, called Maine Mined, and I'll be updating folks via Livejournal about some cool perks for those ff fans who are willing to drop $.99 for original fiction, author interviews, and an in-depth profile of a different Maine animal rescue or animal welfare organization each issue. $.25 per download will be donated directly to the feature animal welfare organization, so the more support I can get, the better. I promise it'll totally be worth that $1! _

_All right... End of plug. Thank you again to everyone for reading, and I can't wait to return again in May with the sequel to Murder in the Marriage!_

_All the best,  
Jen  
_


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